


Roll With It

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bottom Dean, Editor Castiel, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Geek Dean, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Alternating, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Russian Castiel, Sam Winchester at Stanford, Secretary Dean, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tattooed Castiel, Top Castiel, the proposal!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: For two years, Dean’s been slaving away beneath his boss – many label him a secretary, but he fucking hates that and feels like it only applies to someone wearing a pencil skirt, so he insists on his title of Executive Assistant. And for what? In the vain hope that one day he’ll manage to become an editor for Sandover Publishing, and that he’ll see the manuscript that he’s slaved over since college finally realized in print.That’s the dream, anyway.Right now, he’s fucking late.Dean wants to be an editor. Castiel just wants to stay in the country.‘The Proposal’ – as you’ve never seen it before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [Makenna](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com) for ideas, beta-reading and just generally making sure this is perfect.
> 
> If all goes well, this should be a long fic. Updates will hopefully be somewhere between weekly or fortnightly.
> 
> Tags will be added as we go.
> 
> Hold onto your hats.

Dean knows that his job is a necessary evil. For someone wanting to make their way up the corporate ladder to a position actually worth anything inside this stupid publishing company, they have to do the hard yards first.

It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

For two years, he’s been slaving away beneath his boss – many label him a secretary, but he fucking hates that and feels like it only applies to someone wearing a pencil skirt, so he insists on his title of Executive Assistant. And for what? In the vain hope that one day he’ll manage to become an editor for Sandover Publishing, and that he’ll see the manuscript that he’s slaved over since college finally realized in print.

That’s the dream, anyway.

Right now, he’s fucking late.

He’s running at full tilt through the New York traffic, mentally and occasionally verbally cursing out the frayed wires that had left his alarm clock blank and silent this morning as his tie flies out behind him. His briefcase smacks into the side of a newsstand as he takes a sharp corner and he barely has time to call out an apology before he’s pelting down the footpath again. Some people get out of his way, because no one wants to tangle with a crazy-looking man at ass-o’clock in the morning, but some need a little more encouragement. Dean is finally able to elbow his way to the coffee shop by the offices.

He pushes his way past the line, ignoring the grumblings and side-eyed glares he receives – he deals with much worse shit from his boss on a daily basis – and flashes a relieved look at the barista. Kaycie? Kaylee? He can’t fuckin’ remember, just pours the sugar on thick as he takes the two cups from her and sends a flirtatious smile her way. “Thanks, sweetheart, you’re a lifesaver,” he tells her before he’s off again, careful not to knock the coffee cups as he ducks out of the shop. In the state he’s in right now, coffee is more important than gold. Even if he’s taken to drinking the shitty unsweetened soy stuff that his boss favours, it’s better than nothing, and Dean can’t wait until he can finally get behind his desk and down his whole cup before his boss arrives.

No one bothers him in the elevator – everyone knows him, recognizes the fact that he’s carrying two coffee cups and shoots him a sympathetic smile – and he makes it to his floor with a minute to spare.

Which is why it stands to reason that, because the universe apparently has a cruel vendetta against a small town boy from Kansas who does not deserve this kind of treatment, he smacks into Andy from Marketing four paces out of the elevator.

His boss’s coffee splatters against his shirt, and Dean can only spare a second to stare dismally down at the spreading stain and think _why me?_  before he’s whirling on Andy.

“Give me your shirt,” he growls, grabbing Andy by the collar and pulling him through to Dean’s own small office adjacent to that of his boss. He’s already stripping off his jacket and tie as he goes, because _fucking hell_  there are _not_  enough seconds in a minute, and he definitely turns some heads as he passes through the maze of cubicles.

Right now, he doesn’t have time to care. Twenty seven seconds later, Andy is scurrying out of his office wearing a coffee-stained white shirt, and Dean is shrugging his jacket on over a shirt slightly too small for him when his computer beeps.

_It’s here._

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and scrambles to make himself presentable, because he’s not a fucking amateur and usually he’s more prepared than this. He can’t say the same for a few of his newer coworkers, who scurry out of Novak’s way like scared mice as the man appears out of the elevator, crossing the floor in long strides with his tan trench coat flaring out behind him. He watches from the doorway of his office as the rest of the poor souls on this floor attempt to look as though they had actually been working before Novak walked in, instead of standing around gossiping and sharing stories from the weekend. Dean barely gets a moment to find the situation amusing in a twisted kind of way before Novak is at the door to their offices, his expression surly as ever.

Dean reluctantly hands over the only remaining coffee, resigning himself to the shitty brew kept in the staff breakroom. It may taste like ass, but he’s desperate and he will not survive without it.

“Morning, sir,” Dean tells Novak in the most upbeat tone he can muster – he’s kissed ass to climb the ranks for two years, he’s not about to stop now – and follows his boss into his office.

“I’ve got manuscripts for you to look over and approve from Jeffords, I’ve moved your lunch meeting from 1 to 12:30, you need to call Mr. Devereaux to follow up on the media appearances,” Dean reels off as he sets piles of paperwork down on Novak’s desk, placing a handful of memos down on the desk in front of his boss and grabbing the sheaf of papers that have been neatly stacked in the ‘OUT’ box. “Hammersly from the Printing department wants your final opinion on one of the new series, and…” He rubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, then drops it, hoping Novak won’t notice that he didn’t shave this morning. What was that last thing? If he’d had his coffee this morning, he’d remember, and he glares bitterly at the cup in Novak’s hand. That is, of course, until he and Novak simultaneously spy the scrawled message on the side of the coffee cup, and Dean goes very still.

Novak peers at it, brows drawn into a frown.

“Who is Katie, and why is her number written on my coffee cup, offering a ‘good time’?” He draws finger quotes in the air with his free hand, and Dean blushes deeply. Time to come clean.

“That, uh. That may have been my cup. I may have spilled yours.”

Novak fixes him with a withering look, and it’s only two years of working under this impossible man that gives Dean the mental backbone not to shrink under his stare. His boss takes an experimental sip, then raises an eyebrow at Dean.

“You don’t seem like the kind of man to drink an unsweetened soy latte.”

Dean simply shrugs his shoulders, because yes, he fucking hates the stuff with a vengeance, but it’s even more pathetic to admit that he’s taken to drinking his coffee in the same style as his boss just in case this exact situation occurs.

Novak eyes him for a long moment, quite obviously not buying Dean’s bullshit, but eventually he returns his attention to the neat stacks of paper on his desk and sips at his coffee. Dean watches bitterly, craving caffeine in any shape or form and resigning himself to the breakroom brew as he sorts the papers from the ‘OUT’ box and retreats to the desk just outside of Novak’s office that he calls home. If anyone wants to get to Novak, they have to go through Dean first – which also means that Dean is the number one source of intel when it comes to the boss’s movements.

 _The dragon is in his cave_ , he types into the office chat, leaving the subsequent replies from his coworkers to cheer him up a little as he sits down and begins to sort through the outgoing paperwork. A few minutes later, Andy pops his head around the corner to Dean’s office, eyeing Novak’s closed office door with trepidation. “Dude.” He pouts, tugging at Dean’s coffee-stained shirt with distaste. “Am I getting a clean shirt any time soon, or am I stuck in this for the rest of the day? If Novak sees me, I’m fucked, man.”

That explains the numerous fearful glances he’s been shooting the closed office door.

“Here,” Dean sighs, digging into his pocket for the company credit card that he uses to run Novak’s errands. No one will notice one small purchase. “Go buy yourself a cheap shirt. And could you get me a coffee, while you’re at it?” By this point, Dean’s craving the stuff. He holds the card out to Andy, who scampers across the threshold to take it from his outstretched fingers.

The office door swings open.

Again – cruel universe, small town boy from Kansas, Dean doesn’t why it’s continuing to _fuck him over_. This day could not get worse.

Andy meekly takes the card from Dean’s hand and does his best to surreptitiously push it into his pocket – not that that will help them now. Novak’s surely already taken stock of the situation.

Andy backs away, arms folded over his middle to try and hide the coffee stain (it’s not working, the thing’s giant) and gaze fixed on a point behind Dean, features twisted in fear.

Dean slowly spins in his chair and meets Novak’s impassive gaze. Sometimes he swears that the guy may as well be made of marble, considering the truly minute range of emotion he displays. It’s really quite impressive, but at this point, he has no idea what the man is thinking.

Novak’s gaze fixes on Dean, then slowly tracks over to Andy, his face still expressionless. Dean is starting to sweat now, with absolutely no idea of how Novak is going to react.

His boss looks down at the latte still in his hand, then back up to Dean. “Hmm,” he muses, and raises an eyebrow at Dean. Instead of tearing them each a new one, however, he simply says, “Dean, please reschedule my meetings for tomorrow, I need to meet with Bracknell at three.”

And he disappears back into his office, the door closing behind him.

Andy giggles hysterically, and Dean wants to echo the sentiment. You never know what you’re going to get with Novak. He could have just as easily fired Andy, and severely disciplined Dean (who is a little less expendable, but not by much. It helps that at this point he can basically preempt each of Novak’s movements and is the only person who will put up with the guy).

“Shirt and coffee,” Dean reminds Andy, who just looks relieved to be alive. He seems to snap out of whatever shocked daze he was in. “Dude, I nearly got eaten by the dragon,” he breathes, and then he’s disappearing out the door of Dean’s office as fast as his legs will take him, not wanting to hang around lest Novak return.

Days like this, Dean wishes he could do the same.

Instead, he puts his head down and gets back to work. When Andy returns fifteen minutes later wearing a clean shirt, Dean downs the proffered coffee in one go.

He works steadily for the next hour or so, up until he hears the soft _swish_  of Novak’s office door opening. Dean straightens up and glances over his shoulder at his boss, eyebrow raised.

Novak is frowning down at a memo in his hand, and his blue eyes look troubled when his gaze meets Dean’s. This can’t be good. “It seems that we have an overflow of manuscripts and paperwork to attend to. I know you’d requested leave for the weekend, but I require you to remain here in order to assist with sorting and cataloguing the apparently untouched excess. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Dean’s stomach sinks. That leave had been requested for weeks – months, even. And now, just days before he’s set to head home, to have it pulled out from under him?

His chair slides back across the carpeted floor as Dean stands, turning to face his boss. “Sir, it’s, uh, it’s actually my little brother’s graduation this weekend, so I-“ Novak is already breezing past him, and it’s evident that he has no intentions of actually listening to Dean’s plea. Dean can’t believe his shitty life. “It’s fine, I’ll just miss it. You’re actually saving me from a weekend of misery anyway,” he bites out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Novak disappears around the corner and Dean swears, slapping his palm on the desk and slumping back down into his chair. He just can’t catch a break. He’s been looking forward to the big celebration for so long, knowing that it’s one of the few times he’s going to be able to get out of New York this year to spend time with his family. Now, he’s not even going to get to see his family, let alone be around for Sam’s big day.

His mom’s going to kill him.

Lunchtime finds Dean hunched over his work phone, doodling idly on his memo pad as he’s berated by his mother.

“I know, I know, okay? Tell Sammy I’m sorry, okay, what- mom, what do you want me to tell you? He’s making me work the weekend. No, I’m not- no, listen, I’ve worked too hard for this promotion to throw it all away, okay? I’m sure that dad is pissed, but-“ At that point, Dean sees Novak out of the corner of his eye, almost at the door to his office. He smoothly changes tack, straightening up and shoving his drawings out of sight. “-we take all of our submissions around here very seriously. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” He slaps the phone down onto its holder, effectively ending the conversation and carefully avoiding Novak’s gaze.

Novak frowns suspiciously at him from the doorway. “Was that your family?”

For someone who usually has all the social grace of a very obtuse brick, sometimes his boss is irritatingly astute. Dean sighs. “Yes.”

Dean figures that Andy must have put something in his coffee as payback for earlier when he sees the corner of Novak’s mouth curl up just slightly. “Did they tell you to quit?”

“Every single day,” Dean replies without missing a beat, swivelling back to his computer and tapping on the space bar to bring it out of sleep mode.

Novak nods, though it seems to be more to himself than anything else. “I’m meeting Morgan and Sharpe upstairs. It seems that you forgot to inform me of that this morning.” Dean is pinned under a stern look. So _that’s_  the thing he hadn’t been able to remember.

“Come get me in ten minutes, we have a lot of work to do.” And of course, he’s gone before Dean can even reply, disappearing out of view and leaving Dean to drop his forehead down on the desk, praying to whoever the fuck is listening that his promotion is coming soon.

At twenty-nine years of age, Castiel is immensely proud of what he has achieved. To be the editor in chief for Sandover Publishing, one of the youngest to ever hold that position in the history of publication companies? It’s certainly impressive.

He knows that he may have sacrificed some aspects of his life to ensure such a magnitude of success in his career, but they’re not sacrifices that he minds or even notices. So far, he’s done fine without a partner, or even without close friends. His work is more important than any of that – his achievements, his success, the growing influence of Sandover Publishing. Books and numbers make sense. People do not – which is why he has no idea as to the reason behind his meeting with Luke Morgan and Michael Sharpe. His results are impeccable, and while he doesn’t understand the intricacies of day-to-day interaction, over the years he’s gotten very good at manipulating his clients into complying with his goals and wishes. After his hugely successful trip to London to close a difficult client and smooth over some ruffled feathers, he should be one of the bosses’ favourites – so why has he been called up to their office?

His employees scurry across the office before him, scrambling to get out of his way, and he doesn’t blame them. He’s stalking over to the elevators, trench coat snapping out behind him, and he must have a face like thunder. The two people inside the elevator see him coming and almost trip over each other trying to vacate the space, and Castiel pays them no attention as he steps inside and jabs at the button for the right floor. May as well get this over with – usually he’s pretty good at being able to preempt whatever is coming his way, but with this… he has no idea. Once he’s alone in the seclusion of the elevator as it pulls him several floors up, he sighs and runs a hand through his unruly mop of hair. In the mirror, he can see it stick up, and tries in vain to pat it back down before the meeting. There are bags under his eyes, he realizes. Worse than normal.

Not much he can do about that, though. The work around here won’t complete itself. The elevator gives a soft _ding_  to signal his arrival, and he squares his shoulders, stepping out and making his way over to his bosses’ office. Castiel raps twice on the ornate wooden door, and then he’s pushing it open, raising an eyebrow at the two men who glance up at him. “Luke, Michael,” he greets them, nodding woodenly as he pushes the door shut behind himself. “Why have I been called up here?”

Castiel has never been one to beat around the bush.

Luke and Michael exchange a glance, communicating with each other with a simple look in the easy way shared by business partners and co-owners. Michael stands from his desk and wanders over to Luke’s, leaning one hip against the edge and pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Castiel,” he begins, and Castiel can’t quite decipher the expressions on their faces. If Dean was here, surely he’d know what was going on – the man is much better with people than he is. But Castiel can hold his own, so he straightens his spine and waits for Michael to continue. “First of all, congratulations on managing to close Ms Talbot on your trip to London. Her addition to Sandover will be a huge asset.”

Castiel blinks. That had not been what he was expecting. A little confused, he simply responds by inclining his head. It’s evident that that’s not all Michael has to say, however, from the way that his mouth twists. The man casts a helpless glance at Luke, who straightens up and folds his hands. Luke has always been the better of them at breaking bad news – Castiel knows this, and his stomach sinks.

“Unfortunately, Castiel, your trip to London has also put you, and us, in a difficult position. I’m sure that you’re aware that you applied to have your visa renewed. A condition of that is that you are not allowed to leave the country.”

Castiel frowns – it had been a business trip, born of the need to secure this client before she could run to another publishing company, and it’s now provided them with a secure foothold in Britain. He opens his mouth to explain this, but only manages to get out a, “Sir, I-” before Luke holds up a hand. Castiel snaps his mouth shut, bristling slightly.

“I know, Castiel. But the fact of the matter is, you broke the rules. As such…” He sighs, shakes his head momentarily. “Your visa has been denied.”

The room spins on its axis – or at least, Castiel swears it does. Denied? For a second, he can’t breathe. He can’t go back home, not when he’s built himself such a good life and career here. He reaches out to steady himself on the back of the chair facing Luke’s desk, blue eyes wide and mouth hanging open. So that was why Michael hadn’t been able to tell him. This will shatter Castiel’s world, and the company will lose their best employee, their editor in chief. The room spins, and there is a very real chance that he’s going to vomit right in front of his bosses.

Luke looks sympathetic, but he continues on. “The fact remains, Castiel, is that even if your visa is eventually renewed, you’ll have to leave the country for at least a year. There’s really no way around it – you simply can’t stay here without a work visa. We’ll be promoting Zachariah Adler to your position in your absence.”

Castiel doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing, and his expression fixes itself into a dark scowl. Adler is a scumbag who’s been trying to undermine Castiel for almost a year now, gunning for his job as the only other person in the company who could possibly occupy the position. Now, to have it handed to him so easily because of Castiel’s blunder? He opens his mouth – to protest, argue, beg, he’s not sure. And he’ll never know what may have come out of his mouth, because at that moment, there is a sharp knock on the door.

Dean’s head appears out from behind it, and as the sunlight streaming through the huge windows lining Luke and Michael’s office lands on his face and illuminates those green eyes, Castiel has a brilliant idea.

Dean’s lips are moving, but Castiel isn’t listening to a word he’s saying, his mind too busy formulating the plan. Yes, _yes_. This could work. Gay marriage is legal, so that isn’t a problem. Dean is the right age, if a few years younger, and not unattractive. Besides, he’s _here_ , which means that it doesn’t look like Castiel is making excuses or grasping at straws. As long as Dean just goes with it. This could be his ticket to staying in America.

Dean blinks at him, and Castiel realizes he’s been staring when he ventures a, “Sir?” He shakes his head to clear it, then gestures for Dean to join them inside the office. While he attempts a smile, it’s clear from Dean’s expression that the result is not a success, and he quickly lets it fall as his assistant joins him in front of Luke and Michael. It’s evident that he’s uncomfortable from the way he shifts his weight and surreptitiously tugs at the shirt that is one size too small, unsure of how to act around the co-owners of Sandover Publishing. It probably also doesn’t help that he has no idea why he’s here.

Dean will be fine – all he has to do is roll with it.

“Michael, Luke,” he begins, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It’s a miscalculated gesture, since Dean is an inch or two taller than him, but he’s committed now. “We didn’t want to share the news for fear of upsetting the balance inside the company, but I feel we now must.”

Castiel may not understand socializing, but manipulation is what he’s good at.

“Dean and I are engaged.”

Beside him, Dean freezes, and Castiel tightens his grip on the man’s shoulder ever so slightly as a warning not to _fuck this up_.

Blindsided by the information, Michael and Luke look between the two of them in unison, mouths hanging open. It takes them a few moments to process this before Michael manages to get out any words at all. “Mr Winchester? Is this true?”

It seems that in the two years of having Dean as his assistant, Castiel has managed to train him well, because there’s only a beat of hesitation before Dean replies with a, “Yes.”

Dean may not know what’s going on, but Castiel likes to think that he trusts his boss enough to follow along in blind faith. Plus, Dean has always been eager to please, even if he grumbles about it when he thinks Castiel isn’t within earshot.

Luke and Michael don’t seem to know what to make of this. All Luke can manage is a stuttered, “Congratulations?” and Michael seems too shocked to investigate any further, seemingly stuck on the fact that their _male_  editor in chief is engaged to his _male_  assistant. Several long moments of awkward silence pass, in which Castiel is not sure what to say, and he can feel Dean’s gaze burning into the side of his face. Eventually, Michael seems to snap out of his daze somewhat, still looking a little baffled by this turn of events.

“Well, uh… Then, Castiel, make sure you get all your paperwork done as soon as possible, and… Well, congratulations, I guess. Just keep workplace relations at a professional level.” Michael’s face has taken on a slight red colour, and Castiel nods. “Thank you, Luke, Michael.” With the meeting over, he lets go of Dean’s shoulder and turns to exit the office, Dean hot on his heels.

As soon as they’re out in the hall, Dean whirls on him and, once he’s made sure there’s no one else around, tears into Castiel. “’Scuse my language, boss, but what the _fuck_  was that? Since when are we engaged? Why are we engaged? Hell, I didn’t even know you were into dudes!” Dean’s eyes are wide and he’s tugging compulsively at his tie like he does when he’s stressed, as if having it tight around his neck makes him anxious.

Castiel may not understand socializing, but he’s picked up a habit or two of his assistant’s over the years. He scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted by this whole ordeal. Hopefully it won’t get too long to get the paperwork sorted and everything straightened out.

“I apologize for surprising you with that,” he tells Dean, who’s now staring at him with hands on hips, his aggressive pose practically demanding an explanation. “It was a necessity. My application for a work visa has been declined, and my only option for remaining in the country and keeping my job is a successful application for a spousal visa. You were available and nearby – to my knowledge, you rarely date, if at all – and your status as my assistant makes any hypothetical relationship between us more plausible.”

Dean is still staring at him, slackjawed, and Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes. It’s evident that this is going to take a while to sink in.

“But… I… what… I’m not going to marry you, dude! You can’t make me!”

Castiel has had enough of this. No one is around to see him fist a hand in the front of Dean’s shirt and haul him a short distance down the hall and around the corner, where they definitely won’t be interrupted. When he lets Dean go, the man rocks back and lets his shoulders lean back against the wall, his eyes wide and cheeks a little flushed. The sight of his tongue darting out to wet his lips draws Castiel’s attention for a moment, but he quickly snaps himself out of it.

“Listen, Dean. If I’m deported, where do you think that leaves you? Adler will take my job, and he hates both of us. You’ll be tossed to the curb without so much as a backwards glance, and the last two years will all be for naught.” Castiel runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes closed for a second. He needs this to work, damn it. “If you agree to this, we can break it off and get a divorce as soon as I get my spousal visa, I promise. It’s all for pretend.”

He can see the gears working behind Dean’s eyes, and for a second he regrets teaching his assistant so well when he counters with, “If I agree to this, I want a promotion. I want to be an editor, capisce?”

Begrudgingly, Castiel nods, and he notices that the corners of Dean’s mouth tilt up just slightly at his small victory over his boss. “Fine. We’ll go to the USCIS tomorrow and get all this straightened out. Nine in the morning, don’t be late. Understand?” Dean nods, still looking shell-shocked by the whole situation. Castiel doesn’t have time to ease him through it. He has work to do. With a sharp, curt nod of his own, he turns on his heel and strides off down the corridor, towards the elevators.

What a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a writer who's just starting out, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and will encourage me to improve and give faster updates <3
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)! Come check me out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who left comments and kudos! You guys are the reason I've been able to get this out so quickly - and because of [Makenna](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com) who is the best sounding board and beta I could ever ask for.
> 
> Please enjoy!

After Castiel leaves, stalking away down the corridor like an avenging angel and disappearing into the elevator with one final flash of tan, Dean spends a good few minutes staring off into space, leaning against the wall of a secluded hallway on the top floor.

Engaged. He’s engaged to his boss.

What the hell had he been thinking, agreeing to that? But it wasn’t like he’d had a choice. He’s worked too damn hard for this promotion, and now he’s going to get it. If that means fake marrying and maybe even real marrying his boss (provided they get a hasty divorce as soon as they can, Dean does actually want to get married for real someday), then so be it. Simply another necessary evil.

So, with that reasoning, he makes his way back down to his office and completes the rest of the work day in a daze. Whenever Castiel makes a request or asks him a question, he just nods or replies without expression, totally missing the odd looks his boss gives him. Dean is still trying to process the _weirdness_ that his life has apparently become.

As soon as his hours are up, he escapes his office, leaving without saying goodbye to anyone and walking the reasonable distance back to his small apartment.

At least there he can be by himself and _think_ about this as he nurses a beer and eats leftover pasta in front of the television, but there isn’t much actual thinking going on.

Like a broken record, spinning round and round and jumping over the same spot each time, Dean can’t get over the fact that he’s hypothetically engaged to _Castiel Novak_. Sure, Dean has been his assistant for two years – he knows what the guy likes to eat and drink, what time he wakes up in the morning, his favourite clothing brands, all that. But he has no idea what Castiel is like outside of work. Who his friends are, what he watches on TV, his hobbies and interests.

Aren’t they all things that fiancés should know?

That night, Dean turns in early, his sleep marred by troubled dreams as he tosses and turns in his twin bed.

The next morning, his alarm doesn’t go off. Of fucking course. He’d been so distracted by the whole _engagement_ thing that Castiel sprung on him yesterday that it had completely slipped his mind to fix his alarm clock. As a result, when he wakes to sunlight streaming through his windows at a sharp angle, he almost trips over his own tangled covers trying to jump out of bed.

When he fumbles for his phone, it tells him that the time is 8:45. He can make it.

Five minutes later, Dean’s freshly showered and running from his apartment yet again. He figures he’s not working today, since he and Castiel are going to the immigration offices, so he dresses in jeans and a t-shirt. Right now, he just can’t be fucked with the suit he usually has to wear.

Breakfast will have to take a back seat, unfortunately for his growling stomach. The USCIS is ten minutes away at what will be almost a dead sprint, so Dean has to _move._  

At 9:01, he skids to a stop in front of a very disgruntled looking Castiel, sheened with sweat and with his muscles protesting. He really needs to hit the gym more often. Still, that was the fastest he’s moved in a while, and Castiel is still looking at him like he’s just tipped coffee all over a priceless novel (now _that_ would be grounds for firing). It’s a look that really isn’t merited considering how Dean is currently doubled over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath, and he glares up at Castiel.

Wait – when did Castiel become Castiel and not Novak?

Whatever. Now is not the time for that. Dean straightens up and rakes a hand through his hair, his glare intensifying as Castiel simply raises an eyebrow at his clothing. Luckily, the man doesn’t mention it, though, simply grinds out, “You’re late.”

For fuck’s sake.

“By one minute, dude!” Dean protests, though it comes out with the slightest hint of a wheeze. “You don’t get to be a dick. I’m doing you a favour here.”

Apparently Castiel has never heard him swear (Dean keeps himself on a very tight leash at work for the sake of his job) and looks a little taken aback. After a few moments, he gives a curt nod and makes an awkward gesture towards the door to the building. “Well. Shall we go in?”

Dean gives him a look that he really hopes conveys the _no shit, Sherlock_ that he’s going for and not the _oh god, why did I run, I want to die_ that he’s really feeling inside, and strides past Castiel.

The building is filled with people who are – presumably – in the same situation as he and Castiel. Though it’s likely that many of them are actually engaged for the sake of love, and not because of blackmail and imminent deportation. It brings him up short, because holy shit, he’s really going to do this, he’s going to lie for his promotion – and then he doesn’t have any longer to freak out about his situation because Castiel is gripping him by the elbow and breezing past the line. In his well-tailored suit and ever present trench coat, he makes an imposing figure, and no one protests when he cuts in front of a middle aged Mexican couple, setting his application for a fiancé visa on the counter in front of the officer.

At least this will be over soon. Then maybe Dean can go back to his apartment and repair his piece of shit alarm clock.

He barely has time to even consider backing out before they’re being waved into a small office, and this is it, it’s really happening. Fuck.

Dean follows Castiel automatically, in a way that’s been programmed into him after two years of employment, and it’s definitely not the way that a couple in love would interact. Does Castiel even know how couples usually act? He’s pretty sure he’s never even seen the guy make physical contact with anyone, apart from yesterday afternoon during and after the meeting. Dean swallows – partly because of the memory (Cas is weird but Dean had never realised that he’s also more than a little hot) and partly because being here and staring across the desk at an immigrations officer is freaking him the fuck out.

The officer folds his hands on the desk, his gaze shifting steadily between him Dean and Castiel as he sizes them both up. “I’m Mr. Henriksen,” he begins, “and you must be Dean and… Castiel.” His gaze drops to the visa application on the desk in front of him, and Dean takes the opportunity to shoot a worried glance at his boss, who is still standing by the doorway, his face impassive. Is he not even a little worried about how this is going to go? Dean feels like he’s sweating bullets.

Henriksen flicks through the pages of the application, then closes the manila folder with an air of finality and fixes his gaze directly on Dean. “So, I have one question for you. Are you both committing fraud to avoid his-“ He gestures at Castiel, whose eyes have gone almost comically wide, “-deportation so he can keep his position as editor in chief at Sandover Publishing?”

Ah, fuck.

Dean blinks, trying not to let any of his growing terror at the situation show on his face. “That’s ridiculous,” he replies, surprisingly smoothly, as Castiel asks, “Where did you hear that?” as if the question is completely absurd.

Maybe Cas is better with people in stressful situation than Dean gives him credit for. But then again, this is a _very important_ situation. If either of them fuck anything up, they are screwed.

Henriksen eyes them for a moment, then makes a show of rifling through his papers. “We had a phone tip yesterday afternoon from a man named-“

“Was it Zachariah Adler?” Castiel interjects, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“-Zachariah Adler,” Henriksen finishes.

Dean watches as Castiel releases a harsh sigh, praying that his boss can get them out of this. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Henriksen, but Mr. Adler is in line to receive my position should I be deported from the country. As such, his tip should not be counted upon as reliable. I know you’re incredibly busy with your waiting room full of-“ Here, Castiel waves a hand in a dismissive gesture as if the people he’d cut in front of are beneath him, and Dean can’t help but wince. That won’t end well. “So if you just give us our next step, we’ll be on our way.”

Henriksen chuckles, but it isn’t an amiable sound. Oh, no.

“Mr. Novak, please.”

Even Castiel can sense the change in tone as Henriksen continues, and crosses the small office to take a seat beside Dean. The small gesture of solidarity may be too little, too late.

“Let me explain to you the process that’s about to unfold.” Henriksen leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, and suddenly Dean gets a very bad feeling about what is indeed about to unfold. “Step one will be a scheduled interview. I’ll put you each in a room, and I’ll ask you every little question that a real couple would know about each other. Step two, I dig deeper. I look at your phone records, I talk to your neighbours, I interview your co-workers.”

Dean shrinks lower in his chair, wondering how they ever thought they’d be able to pull this off without getting caught. This guy is talking about a full-scale interrogation – there’s no way they can withstand that.

But Henriksen is still talking.

“If your answers don’t match up every point, you-“ He points an accusing finger at Castiel who, to his credit, doesn’t react, “-will be deported indefinitely. And you, young man-” And now the finger is being pointed at Dean, who does his best not to gulp when he’s told: “will have committed a felony punishable by a fine of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and a stay of five years in a federal prison.”

Dean feels like Castiel is getting a much better deal out of this agreement if everything goes south.

Henriksen pauses, probably to let the information sink in and let Dean freak out a bit.

It’s working.

“So, Dean,” Henriksen says, his voice a little softer now, not as harsh. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You want to talk to me?” Henriksen gestures between the two of them, ignoring Castiel, who Dean can feel is staring at him.

Very slowly, Dean shakes his head. He’s always been fucking loyal to a fault, even when it comes back to bite him on the ass. Which this probably will.

“No?” Henriksen muses, tilting his head and fixing Dean with a _look_.

Dean feels the shake of his head slowly become a nod. He doesn’t know what he’s doing – ‘freaking the fuck out internally’ is probably the best description for it.

“Yes?” Henriksen asks, and there’s definitely a glint of victory in his eyes. The strength of Castiel’s stare increases.

“The truth is,” Dean begins, his lips having started moving without his brain’s consent, and now he’s gotta scramble to catch up, thinking on his feet. He clears his throat. “Mr. Henriksen, the truth is…” _I’m lying to you so that my boss can stay in the country and so that I can keep my job and be promoted._

That’s what he should’ve said, if he definitely didn’t want to go to jail.

Instead, something different comes out.

“Castiel and I… Are just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love.” 

Yeah, he’s definitely well out of safe territory now. Off script, off the map, off everything. And he’s just gotta go with it.

Dean glances over at Castiel to find his boss still staring at him, a hint of something that is almost pleading in his eyes.

No matter how grumpy Cas can be, he’s not a bad guy.

“But we did,” he finishes. And then keeps going. “But we couldn’t tell anyone, because we felt that it would be deeply inappropriate for me to be promoted to editor.” Dean shoots Castiel a look that says _you’d better follow through on that shit, buddy_ , as Henriksen sits back in his chair. He fixes the two of them with his calculating gaze.

“So, have the two of you told your parents about your secret love?”

Castiel is the first to reply, in the kind of blasé, offhand way that betrays just how pained he truly is by the contents of his next sentence.

“Oh, I… Impossible. My parents are dead.”

If Dean were really his fiancé, he would know that, which is why he fights to keep his surprise and sympathy under wraps. An orphan. That’s awful. For an odd moment, he feels the compulsion to reach out and place a comforting hand on Cas’s knee. While it would make them look more like a couple to Mr. Henriksen, the gesture just feels too weird to actually implement. He keeps his hands to himself as Castiel continues.

“I don’t keep in contact with my brothers or sisters, either.” 

So, with Castiel eliminated, Henriksen turns his intense laser focus to Dean, who tries not to squirm. “What about you? Are your parents dead?”

Surprisingly, it’s Castiel who interjects, shooting Dean a somewhat amused look as he likely recalls Dean’s family telling him to quit. “Oh, no, his are very much alive,” Castiel tells Henriksen, and Dean is quick to nod his agreement. “Very much. They’re, uh… Well, we were going to tell them this weekend.” 

 _What?_

Dean twists to stare at Castiel in the most subtle way he can manage, because _what the hell_? What is Castiel playing at?

“Sam’s graduating from Stanford, it’s a big celebration, and we thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

Okay, Dean is officially lost. He has no idea what Castiel is trying to pull here, so his best option is just to play along. How the hell had Cas known some of that stuff, anyway?

“You’re going to go to California this weekend?” Henriksen asks, and Castiel nods an affirmation. Which means that Dean is going to get to see his little brother graduate college after all, but he’s going to have to bring his boss and pretend that they’re engaged.

Well, he can’t have everything.

Or… maybe he can.  
  
“Then we’re flying back to my parents’ house in Kansas for the big family celebration,” he jumps in, before Castiel can say anything else. If he’s lucky, they’ll have to hold to this travel plan, and Dean will get to see even the _extended_ family, not just his mom and dad and Sam.

Castiel is gaping at him, and he can see an argument brewing behind the man’s eyes, but he shakes his head minutely, a grin playing about his lips. Ah, victory is sweet – even if it’s just a small one. Castiel has no choice but to play along. “Yes, we are,” he grinds out, and Dean leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Kansas. We are going to Kansas.”

Henriksen gives a resigned sigh and closes the folder of documents that he has spread out before him, shaking his head. “Fine. Fine, I see how this is going to go. I will see you both at eleven on Wednesday morning for your scheduled interview, and your answers better match up on every account.”

It seems that they’ve managed to buy  themselves some time to get their facts straight, at least.

“Thank you,” Dean replies as he stands on slightly wobbly legs to take the reminder card from Henriksen. “I’m looking forward to this one,” Henriksen tells him with a wolfish grin as he stands and sets the manila folder aside. “Gonna be fun. I’ll be checking up on you.” As if he expects them both to crash and burn – which, to be fair, is a highly probable outcome.

“You got it,” Dean tells him as he follows Cas out of the office and closes the door behind him.

They’ve made it – for now. Dean gets to see his family for the first time in ages, and he and Cas have the weekend to find out everything they need to know about each other – he doesn’t want to risk Castiel getting deported back to…

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls as his boss exits the building a few paces ahead of him, lengthening his strides to catch up.

“Where are you even from, anyway?” It’s probably just Canada, right? While the guy isn’t really nice enough to fit the Canadian stereotype, it’s the most likely alternative. Either there or somewhere in western Europe.

Castiel turns to look at him, raising one eyebrow.

“Russia,” he replies, as if that’s common knowledge and completely fucking obvious (it isn’t).

His boss is Russian, and that really shouldn’t simultaneously scare and excite Dean. Cas almost has an air of mystery and danger about him – which is stupid considering he reads books for a living. _You’ve been watching too many spy movies_ , Dean tells himself. It’s still just Castiel. Only… Russian.

This is going to take a little getting used to.

Dean scurries to catch up, Castiel having left Dean behind yet again while he worked through his little mental freakout.

“But… your name…”

“Used to be Krushnic,” Castiel replies with a shrug. “I changed it when I moved here. Wasn’t too hard to figure out the American accent.”

Okay, this is officially more than Dean’s brain can deal with right now. He reaches out to catch Cas by the elbow, halting his trajectory and turning him back towards Dean. “Look, obviously we have some stuff we need to discuss,” he tells his boss, who looks completely done with this whole ordeal already, but Dean really doesn’t want to go to prison for this and so wants to start getting his shit straight. “How about we get lunch? Somewhere casual, I’ll pay, and we can sit down and just talk, capisce?”

Castiel’s expression makes it clear that he would be far happier to leave Dean here and return to the office to work, but he also knows that they have to be convincing for their scheme to be successful. Grudgingly, he nods his head.

Dean grins and uses his grip on Cas’s elbow to pull him through the crowd, pulling up his mental map of the city so that he can figure out the best way to get to his favourite diner.

If they’re going to be doing this, he wants to at least have some good food.

 It turns out that Dean’s idea of a good lunch is not in line with Castiel’s. While he appreciates good food on occasion, it is not as important to him as it seems to be for Dean. He eats for sustenance, not for pleasure, and even when he is dining with clients in the finest restaurants of New York, it’s still just… food.

Not so to Dean. The whole way there, his assistant waxes poetic about the burgers and the pie that this place has to offer, describing all his favourite foods in such vivid and loving detail that it makes Castiel wonder if he made a mistake in declining a read of Dean’s manuscript.

For all that Dean extols the merits of the establishment, however, it is simply just not the kind of place that Castiel is comfortable in. As Dean slouches happily through the front door of ‘The Louisiana’, Castiel can’t help but feel decidedly out of place in the warm atmosphere of the old diner. He’s all too aware of the stiffness in his spine and gait, and for a second feels almost envious of the casual way Dean moves, the relaxed bow of his legs.

Dean calls out, “Hey Benny!” to a man visible through the small window to the kitchen, who lifts a hand and replies, “Hey, brotha’! Been a while!” in return. When the man turns back towards Castiel, his smile is wide and bright. Dean has this natural ease and charm to him which is what makes him great with people and a fantastic assistant. He’s an asset to have around – able to deal with all the messy stuff. Emotions and people and the like.

Castiel follows Dean to the booth the man appears to have chosen, pulling a face (barely noticeable to the casual observer, but Dean instantly recognizes it for what it is and the corners of his mouth pull down just slightly) as he eases himself down onto the sticky vinyl. Dean takes a seat opposite him in a much more comfortable manner, and while Castiel reaches for the menu, Dean doesn’t even glance at it. When the waitress comes over, a bounce in her step and a beaming smile on her face, Dean smoothly orders, “Two bacon cheeseburgers and a plate of fries, please.” His wink has the young waitress scurrying away with a giggle, her cheeks pink.

When Dean glances back at him, Castiel gives him a reproachful look, to which Dean throws his hands up in defence. “What? It’s not like I can turn off this charm. Plus, it’s not like we’re even engaged.”

Dean makes a fair point, Castiel has to begrudgingly admit. Since it seems like he’s not going to be able to choose his own lunch today, he sets the menu back down and folds his hands in front of himself. Time to… talk, he supposes. That is why Dean dragged him here.

“So…” He clears his throat awkwardly, his gaze slanting away from Dean’s when the man raises an eyebrow. “Are you… actually interested in men?”

His cheeks burn when Dean scoffs, and his fingers twist and clench nervously, preparing himself for the man’s judgement. God knows he’s received it enough.

But Dean’s only response is, “You ask me that _now_? _After_ you decide that we’re engaged?”

When Castiel risks a look up, it looks as though Dean is holding back a grin, and he evidently takes pity on Castiel – his assistant has always been too good at reading his emotions. Better than anyone else. It’s odd. “Yeah, dude. I’m bisexual. Equal opportunity guys and girls. I’m guessing you’re also into guys, considering you didn’t even really give it a second thought when you grabbed me and claimed that we were engaged?” There’s no accusatory tone in Dean’s voice, just a hint of amusement.

Castiel nods. “I’m homosexual,” he admits, head turned to watch the pedestrians passing by the window. It’s easier than watching Dean. Even after a decade, it’s still not easy to tell people this – such a deep, intrinsic part of himself that he’s struggled so much with. “It’s not something I’ve… acted on all that often. I was raised in a rather conservative family.”

When he chances a glance back at Dean, the man’s expression is sympathetic. There’s a brief lull in conversation as their food is delivered – Castiel politely tunes out as Dean exchanges a few words with the burly man from before. He also gets winked at as he leaves. It’s strange. He’s never seen Dean wink at anyone until today.

Maybe he really doesn’t know all that much about his assistant – about what Dean’s really like.

Maybe, if he did, Dean’s reaction to biting into his burger wouldn’t have taken him quite as much by surprise.

Instead, he feels like the whole world slows down for a handful of moments, just so that Dean can truly appreciate his first bite into his burger. His eyelashes flutter in bliss as he takes a huge bite and moans around the mouthful like – Castiel isn’t going to finish that thought. He doesn’t realise he’s staring until Dean opens his eyes again, smirking as he chews like he knows he’s caught Castiel.

He clears his throat awkwardly and reaches for his own burger. Having never been one to appreciate food overly much, he figures that this burger will be the same, but he has to admit that it’s good. It won’t make him moan in pleasure (away from that train of thought, now), but it sure tastes good. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence as they both devour their lunch. Dean finishes first, and grins at Castiel across the table.

“Good, huh?” Dean asks, and there’s a slight hint of smugness to his voice, like he knows that there’s absolutely no way Castiel can even pretend that it was bad. He has no choice but to nod as he chews his last bite, then reaches for a napkin to wipe his hands. “Very good,” he concedes, leaning back in the booth. Across from him, Dean snags a few fries from the plate between them.

Once Castiel has recovered somewhat from the burger, he spreads his hands, and the gesture catches Dean’s attention from where his assistant has been methodically demolishing the plate of fries. “Ask away,” he tells the man as he reaches out to collect a few of his own, popping each one into his mouth individually as Dean narrows his eyes, still chewing.

“Russia?” He asks finally, once he’s swallowed his mouthful.

Of course. Of course Dean would lead with that question. Castiel keeps it from people for a reason – he’s done well at burying the memories of the circumstances surrounding his departure from Russia. It wasn’t pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, and he struggles with it even now. It’s why he doesn’t – can’t – open up to people.

Castiel’s mouth twists – a fleeting expression, but there nonetheless – and he sighs. Of course Dean would want to know about his home country.

“Yes, Russia,” he confirms, reaching a hand up to rake his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He much preferred it when they were simply interacting in a work capacity, but he supposes that Dean has a right to know. They are ‘engaged’, after all. And how pathetic is that, that Castiel is forcing his assistant, practically a stranger, to marry him, just so he can stay in America.

Something twists in Castiel’s stomach.

“I was born there, and lived there until I was twenty-one. I had very conservative parents, who have both passed away apart from my step-father, and four other siblings. Most of them are still in Russia, though I believe that my brother Gabriel is somewhere in America. Likely Los Angeles.” Gabriel has always been the rebel of the family, the one who never even tried to fit in. Unlike Castiel, who tried so hard and still fucked it up.

He grits his teeth against the memory.

“I came out to my parents as gay when I was twenty-one. I was kicked out of the house, and ended up applying for a visa to America. I arrived, found myself a job at Sandover and worked my way up the ranks until I became the man you see today.”

Short and sweet. He doesn’t want to dwell on it – it’s already bringing up bad memories, ones he tries to suppress most of the time. He can’t stand to see the shock or pity on Dean’s face, either. This is why he prefers to keep things distant, between himself and everyone.

Sharing parts of himself will only end in pain.

Abruptly, he realizes that he doesn’t want to be here any more. It’s getting later, and he should really be returning to the office. He and Dean have the weekend to figure each other out, after all, but right now it’s too much for Castiel, who’s kept himself shut off for so many years. It feels so wrong to just open back up to someone who is essentially a complete stranger.

He can see Dean shift, open his mouth, and holds up a hand to forestall the questions that he knows are coming. He doesn’t want to answer them right now. Doesn’t want to divulge any more about himself – it’s already so much more than anyone else knows.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t do this right now. It’s too much.” He stands, fishes a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and leaves it on the table beside the half-finished plate of fries.

“I’ll book us some flights for tomorrow and find accommodation for tomorrow night in San Francisco. I’ll let you know what time we leave, and we can talk more on the plane.”

Dean’s brows are drawn together into a frown, now, and he half-stands. “Cas, you can’t just leave, man. We’ve gotta talk, we’ve gotta find out about each other. You can’t run off, what the hell? If you think I’m judging you, you’re wrong.” He looks confused, more than anything, as if he thinks it was something he said that has resulted in Castiel fleeing. It’s not him – it’s Castiel’s own fault. Him and all his baggage that’s led to him shutting himself off from other people.

Castiel knows that Dean won’t judge him, but he just can’t do this right now. People are staring. “I’m sorry, Dean. I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He exits the booth with as much grace as he can muster, gives the confused-looking waitress a weak smile that probably more resembles a grimace, and hurries out of the diner.

He tries not to check if Dean is watching him through the window as he crosses the street away and heads back towards the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta admit, Cas got away from me a little there. Just insisted on having that backstory. A little bit of angst in with the fluff is never a bad thing.
> 
> (The actual proposal is coming I swear)
> 
> Comments and kudos are the best motivators.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this earlier than I thought I would be because of a sudden rush of writing adrenaline, but overall it's been slower going.
> 
> [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) really saved my ass on this one, between a serious case of tunnel vision and having absolutely no idea how the American air travel system works. 
> 
> Enjoy.

The plastic packaging of the bag of Reese’s Pieces crinkles between Dean’s fingers as he twists anxiously at the corners. He hasn’t heard from Cas since yesterday, when his boss had disappeared without an explanation, except for the single curt text.

JFK Airport. 3pm. Flight details and boarding pass attached. 

And no matter what Dean sent in reply, he never received an answer.

cas? are you okay?

did I do something wrong?

cas?

whatever it was, I’m sorry.

i’ll see you tomorrow.

Dean had tossed and turned all night, wondering what the hell he’d done to result in his boss storming out of the diner, a display of more emotion than Dean had seen from him in his entire two years of employment.

And now, just before 3pm (because Cas is already mad at him and he doesn’t want to make the situation worse by being late _again,_ so he planned his arrival at the airport down to the minute), Dean is making his way through the crowds of JFK and heading towards his gate, unfortunate packet of Reese’s Pieces twisting between his anxious fingers.

They’re Cas’s favourite type of candy, and are as close to a comfort food as the man can get – Dean’s bought them for him on more than one occasion, and always when something has gone wrong or his boss is upset for some reason.

This seems like the best chance for Dean to give them to Cas, as a token of his apology.

Plus, they were a bitch to get past the TSA officers. From the way the man overseeing the checkpoint had looked at him when he pulled them out of his coat pocket, he may as well have had a weapon with him; Cas had better appreciate the effort.

If he can manage to find the guy, that is. Being only slightly shorter than Dean, and sporting messy, dark locks that could belong to anyone, he’s kinda hard to spot in a crowd.

But as soon as Dean’s gaze falls upon the man sitting by the windows next to their gate, his body twisted away from the crowds and noise as he watches the planes land and take off in an endless rhythm, he knows. Dean wends his way through the crowds until his footsteps falter to a halt a few paces from Castiel, and he clears his throat.

Instantly, Cas’s shoulders go tense, and Dean’s stomach ties itself back up in knots. Slowly, his boss turns to look at him, and the first thing that Dean notices is that Cas looks _tired_. Even more tired than he has been recently – as if he also suffered from a sleepless night.

Dean feels even guiltier.

At least Cas might hopefully get some time to relax on this short vacation, though, even if they do have to pretend to be engaged for the benefit of Dean’s family. God knows he needs it.

Cas doesn’t speak, shifting on his seat as if he doesn’t know what to say, so Dean goes first.

“Look, whatever I did yesterday to upset you, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to, I was honestly just curious. I won’t ask again, if that’s what you want.” He shrugs a shoulder, swallowing past the lump that has risen in his throat and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I got these for you. As an apology,” he mumbles, keeping his gaze on the floor as he holds out the bag of candy. “I know they’re your favourite."

For a long moment, nothing happens. Neither of them move. When Dean looks up, Castiel is staring at him with wide eyes, head cocked to the side. Dean isn’t sure why he’s getting that reaction, so he holds the bag out a little further, just wanting this awkward moment to be over already. He can’t believe he’s already managed to fuck this up, even if it is all pretend. He probably made a huge mistake buying the candy in the first place – it probably isn’t even Cas’s favourite.

Dean’s self-deprecating thoughts grind to a halt as Castiel reaches out and takes the bag of candy, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he cradles it in his palms and looks down at it as if it’s precious, as if it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

“Thank you, Dean,” he mumbles, his voice soft. Dean rocks forwards slightly on his feet to be able to catch his words. “I can’t believe you noticed my favourite candy. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

Huh. Dean feels a blush colouring his cheeks, and takes a seat beside his boss, lifting his shoulders in another small shrug. “It was no big deal, really. I just wanted to make up for whatever I did yesterday.”

Out the window, a jet takes off from the end of one of the runways. Dean and Cas both watch it go, before Cas turns to fix his serious gaze on Dean – who can’t look at him right now, and opts for watching a plane taxi into the gate next door instead.

“Dean,” Castiel begins beside him, plastic crinkling quietly as he tugs at the corners of the bag with anxious movements. “It wasn’t your fault, trust me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dean lets his gaze slant sideways until he can catch Cas’s eye, recognising the truth in his expression. Slowly, he exhales the breath he hadn’t realised that he was holding. Cas seems to relax as Dean does, even if it’s only minutely. Something else is still bothering him. Dean only has to wait a few moments for an explanation.

“I’m just… not used to opening up like that. I don’t have anyone I’m close to, and I don’t like to talk about the past.”

Now Castiel is the one gazing out the window and over the tarmac. His sadness feels almost physical, as if it’s manifesting in the air around them and weighing it down. Dean hates it, hates seeing his boss with the frown lines deep between his brows that weren’t put there by Chuck Shurley’s terrible writing, and gives him a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“Well, you’ve got me now, okay? I may not be your first choice, but, well, we’re engaged.” He grins, and when Castiel glances up at him, he seems a little less… heavy. “So you can tell me anything, anytime, okay?” He pauses for a second. “Just… maybe before Wednesday might be best, you know? Just so I don’t end up in jail.”

He gives Cas a wide grin so that the man knows he’s joking, and damn, it feels good to see Cas return it, even if it’s tentative.

Dean claps him on the shoulder, but before he can say anything more, one of the airline attendants over at the counter by the gate comes over the intercom to announce that the flight to San Francisco is ready to begin the boarding process, starting with first class, and fuck. He’s been so wrapped up in worrying about whatever he did to upset Cas that he’s forgotten all about the actual _flying_ part, but now that they’re being expected to board – because _of_ course Cas bought them first class tickets – it’s all hitting him like a ton of bricks. His stomach ties itself back up in knots – Castiel seems oblivious as he stands and lifts his bag onto his shoulder.

Briefly, Dean laments the fact that he can’t implement his normal boarding procedure: a series of drinks at the bar before a mad dash through the doors and down the jetway to ensure that he’s the last person on, and therefore doesn’t have to think about anything for too long. He’s done this a couple of times before – when your family lives in Kansas and you don’t get much time off, it’s difficult to make time to see them – but it hasn’t gotten any easier. And now he has Cas with him. Cas, his boss, who still thinks he’s a normal human being and definitely won’t as soon as he sees Dean freaking out over _flying_ of all things. Given the man’s favour of punctuality, he doubts Cas would approve of Dean’s little ritual.

Not that he thinks he can be blamed. Flying isn’t even close to natural – humans are meant to stay with their feet firmly on the ground, thank you very much.

By the time Dean gets over himself and hooks his own bag up onto his shoulder, Cas is already in the line of other first-class passengers queued beside the gate counter. There aren’t very many other passengers with their same priority seating – Dean’s never flown first class in his life, but he knows that it’s high-brow partly because of its limited availability – which means that the line cycles through quickly. In hardly any time at all, Cas is reaching into his bag and producing a boarding pass to show to the attendant for scanning.

Dean can see her lips move but can’t hear her words. She smiles brightly at Cas, looking far too happy about what Dean considers to be a harrowing situation, and he sees Castiel’s shoulders twitch in response. The man takes a few steps towards the bridge, then half-turns and frowns when he notices that Dean isn’t with him. It’s only then that Dean realises that he hasn’t moved.

Forcing his fear down, Dean closes the distance in long strides, ignoring the side-eyes he gets from the crowd of other waiting passengers. There’s a general air of resentment that he’s getting from them, as if his inclusion in the small first-class group is somehow diluting its respectability, and he doesn’t need that guilt on top of everything else that he’s trying to deal with at the moment. He makes it to Cas’s side soon enough, and his own boarding pass is scanned with a too-chipper “Have a wonderful flight!” from the attendant that makes him want to grind his teeth.

He can do this. It’ll be fine, right? There’s nothing to fear about hurtling through the sky in a giant metal tube.

“Hey, sorry,” he mumbles to Cas, as they’re ushered along onto the jetway. He doesn’t provide an explanation for the delay. Cas gives him an odd look, but thankfully doesn’t question it as they make their way down the stuffy walkway to the plane. Every step closer to the end feels to Dean like he’s sealing his fate, and when he steps through the plane’s door a few moments later, he already feels like he might throw up.

Their seats are easy enough to find – first class is nice like that, there’s only twelve of them total – and Dean drops heavily into his assigned spot by the window. The only seat next to him is Cas’s, and both of their chairs are spacious. They’re almost twice as big as the shitty coach-class seats that Dean usually squeezes himself into for a hell flight. In fact, the expansive seats and decent-looking seat-back TV screens make for an experience that is so different from the sardine-tin atmosphere of coach that for a second, as he explores his new domain, he can _almost_ pretend that he’s not on an airplane, about to hurtle up into the sky and across the country.

Almost.

The complimentary drinks menu tucked into the seat pocket below his TV catches Dean’s eye, and his fingers twitch towards it. If he didn’t have Castiel here with him, settled into the seat beside him and looking completely serene with his hands folded on his lap, he’d already be hassling the flight attendants and ordering everything even vaguely alcoholic off of it. He doesn’t want to freak out on this trip, because he doesn’t want Cas to see him drop to that level, but he also doesn’t want Cas to see him be drunk off his ass. He doesn’t want Cas to know that there’s a problem.

But of course, because sometimes Cas is almost freakishly telepathic when it comes to Dean, he knows before the plane has even finished boarding that something is wrong. Dean can feel his gaze heavy on the side of his face, and swallows thickly. Here it comes.

A woman with not one screaming child but _two_ passes through the first class section on her way back to the seats on the other side of the partition, and Dean winces with sympathy. As soon as she’s passed, and the noise along with her, Cas leans in close to him and says softly, as if soothing a spooked animal, “Dean, are you okay?”

He nods his head jerkily, not trusting himself to speak. He tries to distract himself for a bit longer by people-watching; apparently all walks of life are flying to San Francisco on this fine Friday, and Dean automatically finds himself trying to calculate which of them are going home versus which of them are leaving it. An alarming amount of 49ers attire seems to be the biggest giveaway as far as that debate is concerned, and Dean wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Cas’s frown is practically a palpable thing, but Dean determinedly doesn’t look over at him. People-watching is better, for as long as it’s going to last him. If only the TVs were already on.

He’ll be fine, right? Thousands of people fly across the world every day without freaking out like this. Why can’t he do the same? He’ll be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to the plane. It’s rare that anything fucks up in a flight, isn’t it? So it’s super unlikely that his plane is going to be the one that crashes or explodes or something like that. The odds are in his favour.

Too bad he’s got a Han Solo voice in his head saying to _never tell me the odds_. It kind of defeats the purpose of the statistics-based pep talk.

Since he’s apparently exhausted the distractibility of watching the other people who are boarding the plane -- and the trickle of people has almost stopped, anyway -- he switches to his phone for the final minutes before the stewardess is going to inevitably come through and tell him to turn it to airplane mode. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can convince himself that he’s sprawled across his couch at home, a bowl of popcorn beside him and Dr Sexy MD reruns playing in the background, instead of in a flying deathtrap.

He can do this.

It feels like no time at all before the announcement comes out that the doors are being closed and the flight attendants are preparing for take-off.

He keeps it together throughout the announcements and safety demonstrations, but as soon the plane jerks and starts to taxi, he feels his body go rigid. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

This is not how he wants to die, goddamnit. He still has a book that he wants to publish, he at least wants to see Sammy graduate college and go on to law school like the gigantic nerd that he is.

They’re not moving very fast at all, and when Dean sneaks a glance over at Cas, he’s perusing the magazine from his seat pocket, cool as a cucumber. What Dean would give to be that laid back about flying. To be able to not freak out like a normal person.

His fingers are gripping the armrests, and as the plane comes to a stop at the start of the runway, waiting for the go-ahead to take off, Dean gets the distinct feeling, in this moment of quiet, that he’s staring down a pawing bull.

The plane lurches, and Dean jerks with it, screwing his eyes shut as his stomach roils. They’re moving now, picking up speed, faster and faster and faster and Dean has made a _mistake_ , he doesn’t want to _be_ here, he should’ve just stayed in New York and called Sammy after his graduation. That’s almost as good, right?

He can do this, he can do this, he’ll be fine. _Don’t let Cas know that you’re a weird freak who’s terrified of flying_ , _don’t let Cas know that you’re a weird freak who’s terrified of flying._

Castiel’s fingers brush tentatively against his hand, as if trying to get his attention. “Dean? Dean, are you okay? Talk to me, please.”

The plane’s wheels leave the ground and the entire cabin is shaking and the sound of it is like thunder and Dean swears, shifting to grab Castiel’s hand without really thinking as they lift up into the air. He knows that his palm is clammy and his grip is bone-crushingly tight, but he can’t bring himself to let go because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him grounded

As grounded as you can be in a _fucking airplane_ as it lurches into the air, leaving Dean’s stomach back down on the tarmac below.

They climb steadily, and Castiel is silent, unmoving, letting Dean slowly crush the life out of his hand without complaint. Dean’s eyes are still closed – as if, by not looking, he can pretend that he’s not way above the ground in a metal tube with wings. He might be humming Metallica under his breath to calm himself, but at this point he’s really not sure. Anything that’ll keep him from throwing up or having a panic attack right now is fair game, and he wishes he’d just said ‘fuck it’ and gotten drunk before they took off. It might’ve made this whole thing more bearable.

He can’t believe he has to do this another two times in the next few days.

After what seems like an eternity, the plane levels out, and now that they’re not climbing in altitude, it’s slightly easier for Dean to pretend that he’s somewhere sane, back down on the ground. He’s fine, right? Nothing terrible happened, the plane didn’t fall off the end of a runway or clip any tall buildings. They’re alright.

Very slowly, he peels his eyes open and turns his head to meet Cas’s gaze, who looks just about as concerned as Dean has ever seen him.

At that point, he realises that he’s still holding Castiel’s hand, and moves to pull back, but Cas tightens his grip slightly and the corners of his mouth tick up into a small, reassuring smile. “If it helps, we can keep doing this,” he murmurs, and Dean is endlessly grateful that Cas seems to be having a good day, and has an abundance of patience to deal with his fuckup of an assistant.

He can only nod in response – while it’s a little weird, he has to admit that it’s helping. How pathetic is that?

When Cas next speaks, his voice is soft, his gaze fixed on Dean as if he’s the most important thing right now. It kinda helps Dean, to just focus on Cas, let everything else fall away until he can almost forget where he is.

“You didn’t tell me you were afraid of flying.”

Flying. That’s where he is. Dean swallows, hissing between his teeth as turbulence jostles the plane, and tightens his grip on Cas’s hand. God, he’s so fucking useless.

“It’s stupid,” he says with a tense shrug, his gaze slanting away in shame. “Didn’t want to mention it.”

From the sound that Castiel makes, he barely manages to hold back a scoff. Dean glances up when Cas’s thumb slides gently over the back of his hand, a tentative movement. It’s kinda odd, but Dean guesses that he’ll have to get used to it, considering they’re supposed to be engaged. They’ll have to do all that physical stuff – holding hands, hugging, even _kissing_. He’s gonna have to kiss his boss.

It’s a good thing Cas is attractive.

The thought makes him smile, ever so slightly, and it widens when Castiel mirrors the expression.

Huh.

“It’s not stupid, Dean,” Cas tells him, and the slow circles of Cas’s thumb across the back of his hand is, crazily enough, helping him to calm down. “It’s a perfectly valid fear, and I wish you had told me before we boarded so that I was aware of it.”

Dean is about to apologize when Castiel shakes his head. “Please don’t say you’re sorry, Dean. I’m not angry.” He sighs and reclines back into his seat, still holding onto Dean’s hand. And isn’t that just something. “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. I mean it.” He fixes Dean with a stare that only abates when Dean huffs out a weak laugh and a, “Sure, Cas.”

Cas’s lips curl up into a tiny smile before he turns to his TV and fiddles with it with his left hand, apparently bemused by it. Dean may have gotten very lucky with his fake fiancé.

Maybe this flight won’t turn out so bad after all.

Castiel had never realised that Dean was so petrified of flying, but now that he looks back on the past two years of the man’s employment… it makes sense. Dean has never accompanied him on any of his overseas trips, or even his trips around the country. Whenever he’s had to fly anywhere, Dean has always had too much work to do around the office, or he’s been ill, or begged off some other way. Castiel has always been good at recognising when business partners or clients are dodging him, but he just never thought to look for it in his own assistant.

Not that he’s angry, though. From the state that Dean had been in when the plane was taking off, he suffers from a genuine, crippling fear, and is quite embarrassed of it. If Dean had just told him, Castiel would have understood. He doesn’t want Dean to be uncomfortable or scared.

Which is why, if it helps, he’s more than happy to keep a hold on Dean’s hand as they fly. Dean’s hand is warm and strong – even if his palm is a little clammy – and it’s surprisingly nice to have this simple point of contact with someone. God knows the last time he touched someone like this. It’s… definitely been a while.

He won’t let himself get caught up in self-pity. Castiel distracts himself by tabbing idly through the comprehensive selection of movies that the airline has to offer. Most of these he’s never seen, let alone heard of, and he studies the screen with intense concentration as he tries to decide on something to watch.

Beside him, Dean notices what he’s up to, and leans over. He’s so close that Castiel can almost feel his body heat, as he angles himself so that he can see Cas’s screen.

“They’ve got some good stuff here,” Dean muses, and if Castiel wasn’t so distracted by Dean’s proximity, he’d be embarrassed at his lack of pop culture knowledge. So many of these titles are completely foreign to him. He pauses on something called ‘Star Wars’ – it sounds vaguely familiar, but he’s not sure why, and so skips over it to the next option. Beside him, Dean makes a sound of disappointment.

“Damn,” he muses, shifting back slightly to glance at his own screen. “Maybe I’ll watch it myself, then.” When Castiel looks over, he’s smiling, a bright, happy thing. Dean is so handsome that he doesn’t understand why the man doesn’t have people throwing themselves at him every second of the day – Dean excited over something that apparently means a lot to him is even more handsome.

Dean flicks through to the movie on his own TV screen – Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope – and his smile becomes a grin. “Well, may as well, if I’m stuck on this damn plane for so long. She’s no twelve parsec Millennium Falcon, after all.” He looks at Castiel like he’s expecting a reaction, and Castiel feels his stomach drop. His lack of recognition must show on his face and the guilty shift of his eyes, because Dean’s expression shifts into one of gaping shock.

“You’ve never seen _Star Wars_?”

Apparently, in Dean’s book, that is a huge faux pas, and Castiel winces. There’s no way he can talk himself out of this.

“I haven’t,” he admits, a blush blooming high on his cheekbones. “I… don’t have much interest in, or knowledge of, pop culture.”

Dean is spluttering now, fear of flying completely forgotten as he stares at Castiel, dumbfounded. At least that’s a small bonus in this situation, but Castiel braces himself for the tirade of judgement – not understanding commonly known pop culture references is not generally viewed positively.

Castiel has braced himself, but Dean simply blows out a long breath and leans over him to tap on the TV screen, reselecting the ‘Star Wars’ movie. “We’re watching this, then,” he declares, fishing for the complimentary headsets in each of their respective seat-back pockets and handing Castiel’s over. “If you’re going to be my fiancé, I have to educate you properly, and your education starts with Star Wars.”

He’s chosen a good fiancé, Castiel decides in that moment – even if they are only pretending. Dean is prepared to ‘educate’ him instead of responding in a condescending way and deriding his pop culture knowledge – or lack thereof. He can’t help but smile and mirror Dean’s actions as the man plugs in his headset and tugs it over his ears.

“Alright, Cas,” Dean says – the headsets and the dull roar of the engines do a reasonable job of dulling Dean’s voice, so Castiel finds his gaze dropping to Dean’s lips to figure out what he’s saying. Dean grins as he raises a finger to the ‘play’ button on his own screen.

“Three… two… one…”

They press play at the same time, and Dean’s grin is infectious as they settle in to watch the movie.

By the time it’s finished, Castiel has discovered that he actually quite likes the Star Wars movie and the interesting array of characters it has presented to him. This is evidently one of Dean’s favourite movies, because every time he sneaks a glance at the man beside him, Dean’s lips are moving, mouthing the words along with the characters onscreen. Castiel couldn’t imagine loving a movie that much, and watching it often enough that he would have all the words memorised. Not only does Dean know the movie inside and out, he also has his favourite characters – he can tell that Dean likes Han Solo, because every time the man is on screen, he can see Dean glancing at him to gauge his reaction, as if he wants to ensure that Castiel likes him just as much as Dean does.

Actually, now that he thinks about it… that was how Dean acted for over half the movie, with every clever one-liner or important scene. It’s quite endearing that Dean wants him to like it so much – his fiancé is practically bouncing in his seat as Castiel turns toward him, and he can’t help the soft smile that tugs at his lips at the sight of Dean’s pure, childlike excitement.

“So? What’d you think?” Dean blurts out, as if he can’t contain himself, lips stretched wide and teeth flashing in a grin. The movie obviously means a lot to him, so Castiel pauses, tugging his headset off as he considers the question. He doesn’t want to just give a throwaway answer – that’s not the kind of person he is, and he feels like Dean wouldn’t take it kindly if he were to praise it without truly meaning the sentiment.

Dean seems to mistake his pause for a lack of enthusiasm, though, and Castiel has to discard his careful consideration in order to forestall the crestfallen expression that he can see creeping across Dean’s face. “Relax, Dean,” he tells the man, squeezing his hand gently – and what would you know, they’re still linked, and have been all through the movie. How peculiar.

“I very much liked it,” he admits, and the crestfallen expression is quickly relaxed by a bright, brilliant grin. It’s practically blinding, and distracts Castiel to the point where he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. “Granted, it’s not the kind of movie I would usually watch, but I found it quite enjoyable. Are there more?”

And that must have been the right thing to say, because Dean basically lights up, and turns back towards his own TV screen. Castiel watches as he clicks out of the movie – the credits have been rolling as they spoke – and the tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips as he searches through the selection of movies.

“If fuckin’ first class doesn’t have every Star Wars,” Dean grumbles under his breath, and Castiel tilts his head at the expletive. He’s heard Dean swear a few times now – he had managed to control himself most of the time at work, only swearing in moments of extreme stress or frustration – but Castiel is quickly learning that it’s a large part of his vernacular outside of the office. He doesn’t have any huge problem with it – but it’s certainly interesting to find out more and more about the man who’s been his assistant for the past two years, even if it’s just in small bits and pieces.

Castiel is pulled from his thoughts when Dean exclaims in victory, jabbing at the option on the screen that says, ‘Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back.’ He’s about to try and find it on his own screen, but Dean apparently has no issue with leaning across him once again and tabbing through the options until he finds what he was looking for. “Don’t worry, Cas,” Dean tells him as he settles back into his own seat, and Castiel quite likes the way that the nickname sounds coming out of Dean’s mouth, shaped by Dean’s lips. No one else calls him that. “The education continues,” he proclaims, and here, Dean’s words are accompanied by a cheeky grin, a sparkle in his green eyes, “so buckle up, buddy.”

If Dean is determined to ‘educate’ him, so be it. If everything Dean wants to show him is as good as what he just saw, he has no problem with that. Dean side-eyes him when he replies with, “As you wish,” as if he’s done something peculiar, but otherwise just nods. Castiel is more than happy to tug his headset back on and settle back into his seat as Dean presses play.

And the rest of the trip follows that pattern. They get through all of the second movie, pausing it occasionally for discussion, or for Dean to animatedly explain something with wild gesturing sweeps of his hands and a light in his eyes that Castiel has only seen before when his assistant is talking about some of his favourite books.

They have to let go of each other’s hands when the meal cart comes by to eat, and while the food is normal fare to Castiel who’s used to eating in first class, Dean’s eyes are wide as saucers as he devours his plate of lasagne and declares it, “The best fucking thing he’s ever eaten on a flying deathtrap.” It makes Castiel chuckle around a mouthful of salmon, but in truth, he’s just glad that Dean is no longer panicking about the flight. They both decide that, what with all the breaks they’ve taken for food and talking and the first initial panic, they don’t have time to start the third movie – “maybe one day I’ll show you the prequels, but for now we’ll stick to the _good_ movies” – and so settle in for the last half hour of the flight.

It’s only when he checks the flight details on his TV screen that Castiel realises – over five and a half hours have elapsed since they took off. And in that time, there have been few awkward pauses or silences or Castiel managing to put his foot in his mouth like he usually does. Talking with Dean has been pleasant, the man’s infectious energy making it impossible not to be drawn into his world and engage with the things he’s saying. It’s a surprise, but one that Castiel is more than happy about, and he smiles gently to himself. Something about Dean manages to make him feel like he’s halfway normal, like he’s not an awkward semi-recluse who has trouble socialising with or opening up to people.

Though, from what he’s seen of his assistant in the past two years, that is an intrinsically unique talent of Dean’s. Castiel just wants to repay it in some kind, so when the plane is buffeted by turbulence that shakes the cabin and has Dean tensing up beside him, he gently pries Dean’s white knuckled grip from the chair’s armrest and slots their fingers back together.

He can’t quite meet Dean’s eyes, but he gives the man a faltering smile and hopes that’s enough. There’s only so much vulnerability he can take all at once.

So that’s how they land, with Dean still tense and still humming to himself under his breath as the plane’s wheels bounce against the tarmac of the San Francisco Airport (though looking considerably less terrified than he had when they were taking off) and Castiel trying his best to help, despite his lack of experience in this area.

And when the plane finally rolls to a stop by their designated gate, Dean slowly lets go of Castiel’s hand, looking at him with wide eyes as if he’s just unlocked the secrets of the universe. It’s a gaze that feels like Castiel is being peeled open and exposed to his very core, and he quickly slants his gaze away, waiting for the seatbelt sign to be turned off.

The moment of scrutiny has passed by the time they’re allowed to stand, and Castiel hears Dean unbuckle his seatbelt with a sigh of relief. He busies himself with retrieving their bags, handing Dean’s to him and waiting until he’s ready to step out into the aisle. This time, when the other inhabitants of first class glare at Dean, Castiel glares right back at them, using the thunderous expression that terrifies the staff working beneath him. As predicted, the recipients of that stare quickly duck their heads, cowed, and he and Dean make it off the plane without incident.

It seems that Dean still can’t get over the flight, for whatever reason, and keeps shooting Castiel sideways glances as they walk towards the baggage claim. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, and turns to raise an eyebrow at his assistant. “Is there something you want to say, Dean?”

Cheeks pink, Dean quickly glances away and clears his throat, but the way his fingers twitch around the straps of his bag are indicative of him having more to say. Castiel waits.

Finally, Dean heaves out a sigh, turning his head back towards Castiel as they walk. “I guess I just can’t get over how easy that flight was with you, man. Usually it’s a several-hour death-journey, but… half the time, I forgot I was even on a plane. It was… weird.”

“It must have been my humorous charm and wit,” Castiel deadpans. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean gape at him; it’s only when the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile to show that he’s joking does Dean burst out laughing.

“Dude, you made a joke!” He exclaims, and Castiel can feel his ears turning pink as Dean punches him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, man. I must be a good influence.”

“The best,” Castiel acknowledges dryly, and Dean snorts.

“You keep telling me that, boss, and I’m not gonna be able to fit through doorways, what with my big head.”

The mental image that rises unbidden to the forefront of Castiel’s mind, childish as it is, makes Castiel chuckle, and he shakes his head fondly. How has he never seen this side of his assistant?

 _You never spend time with anyone outside of work_ , a little voice in his head reminds him, and it dampens his good mood somewhat.

“I would hate for that to happen,” he tells Dean, though the mirth that previously laced his tone is somewhat muted. “Come on, we should collect our bags. It’s late, and we want to be getting to the hotel soon.”

He can tell that Dean is disappointed by the change in conversation, but to his assistant’s merit, he doesn’t say anything about it as they follow the signs down to the baggage claim.

For the first time since he pulled Dean into Michael and Luke’s office, Castiel can’t help but wonder if he’s gotten himself in a little over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), I'm always happy to take prompts.
> 
> Comments and kudos are wonderful and even more appreciated currently. Also hugs (even virtual ones).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be falling into a slightly longer update time as I return to uni soon, but we'll see how it goes.
> 
> This chapter is going to be completely Cas POV, with the next likely being all Dean.
> 
> Thank you to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) for beta-reading.
> 
> Enjoy.

By the time they pull up to the hotel where Castiel has made their reservation for the night, he’s truly ready for a rest. He hadn’t realised just how taxing it would be to try and balance everything that’s going on right now. Almost all of it centres around the man seated next to him in the back of the cab, who turns to face him with wide green eyes after reading the sign above the lavish front doors.

“Dude, are we staying _here_?”

Dean’s apparent unfamiliarity with what Castiel considers to be normal traveling conditions is yet another ball added into the melee that Cas is trying to juggle. Soon enough, he’s going to drop something, mess up somewhere. Just as long as it isn’t in front of Mr. Henriksen.

“Yes, Dean, we’re staying here,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair and hoping that Dean isn’t going to put up too much of a fight. He can’t deal with it right now.

Luckily, Dean seems to be able to read the weariness in his facial expression and stays quiet, though he still eyes the well-dressed doormen as they climb out of the taxi and retrieve their luggage. They’re both a little underdressed in just their jeans and t-shirts, but Castiel can’t find it in him to care, and makes up for it with the icy and collected composure that he hardly has to fake at this point. Dean trails along behind him, looking supremely uncomfortable, as the doors are opened for them and they enter the foyer.

It’s all smooth, polished marble and abstract sculptures that Castiel hardly pays any mind to as he crosses the gleaming floor with long strides. Barely a minute later, he’s pressing a keycard into Dean’s hand and they’re making their way into the elevators.

Dean looks much happier to be away from prying and judgemental eyes – Castiel is hardly listening as his assistant complains about the “chick in a suit” who was giving him the “stink-eye.” He simply murmurs his agreement, though he feels a slight twinge of guilt as Dean fixes a glare on him, probably able to realise that Castile isn’t quite paying attention to him.

Caught out, Castiel sighs and shrugs his apology. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m very tired, and I must admit, I’m struggling with this. Quite a lot.” His mouth twists, a wry, self-deprecating expression. “I’m not the best at socializing, and this is the most time I’ve spent with someone outside of work in…” Castiel can’t quantify the number, it’s been far too long, so he just settles with, “A long time.”

The elevator slides to a smooth halt, and Dean nods his understanding as the doors open with a soft _ding_. “I know, man,” he murmurs, as Castiel wheels his suitcase out behind him and Dean lifts his duffel. The weight of it, strains Dean’s bicep just a little, enough to draw the eye of a passing young lady dressed in a cocktail dress and adorned with jewels. She flutters her lashes at Dean, who gives her an awkward smile in return, and is blushing hard when he turns back to Cas. “This isn’t exactly my forte either,” he mutters, as the tips of his ears turn a faint shade of pink.

At least he’s not the only one out of his comfort zone, then – though all their problems have thus far been caused by Castiel himself, either through his own booking of the hotel, or the claim of engagement that landed them in this mess in the first place.

He pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind as they reach their door, and he inserts the keycard into the slot on the door. It unlocks with a soft _hiss_ and Castiel reaches out an impatient hand to push it open, stepping into their rooms.

When he’d called, he’d impressed the importance of there being _two_ beds. While they’re claiming to be engaged, and will likely have to share a bed at some point to maintain the pretense, tonight there is no-one watching them and they’re free to do as they will. If they use it for time alone and apart, that’s fine – especially as they may not be getting much of that in the coming days.

As such, the suite that they’ve been allocated has a small living area with couches and a TV, as well as a dining table for two and minibar up against one wall. Dean’s eyes dart towards it. Inset into the walls are three doors; two lead to separate bedrooms, one on either side of the suite, and one to the shared bathroom. On the far wall of the living space, opposite the suite door, is a large window that faces out towards the sea. It’s lovely, and it’s home, at least for tonight.

Dean breezes past him, a relieved slump to his shoulders, and makes a beeline for one of the bedroom doors. That one’s claimed, then. Castiel suppresses a smile and turns his attention towards the other bedroom on the other side of the suite, dragging his suitcase over the soft carpet and into what has apparently now been designated as _his_ room.

It’s light and airy, with another large window and what seems to be an even larger bed. That’s all Castiel cares about right now, as he pushes the bedroom door closed behind himself. The bed looks wonderfully inviting and soft, piled high with cushions and comforters, and he can’t wait to sink into it. At that point, though, his stomach gives an insistent rumble, pointedly reminding him of the fact that he hasn’t eaten since they were served lunch on the plane. And if he’s hungry, surely Dean must be…

“I’m going out to find some food soon, Cas!” Dean calls from somewhere outside his room, and Castiel can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up out of him. His assistant is wonderfully predictable, and apparently his desire for a meal is overriding his discomfort at the prospect of returning to the hotel’s halls and the judgement of its staff.

“Okay!” He calls back – he’ll likely join Dean soon enough.

A door closes out in the main living area, and Castiel finally, _finally_ , lets himself relax. It’s been a long day, and now that they’re finally set up in their hotel room for the night, the last streaks of sunlight are disappearing over the horizon, barely dancing over the water of the ocean before night fully claims the sky. He’s looking forward to nothing more than a long, hot shower, a good meal and a comfortable bed, especially considering the stress that tomorrow promises to bring.

The mattress yields beneath Castiel’s weight as he sinks into it, allowing himself a rare moment of indulgence. It’s not often that he takes holidays like this, completely cut off from work (as Michael and Luke had ordered when he told them he informed them of his trip with his fiancé – it still feels weird to call Dean that), so he’s going to try his best to enjoy the next few days.

Regardless, he’s still nervous. Worries and concerns keep chasing themselves round and round in his mind, taunting him until he can’t tell which way is up and what’s really real. Will he make an ass of himself? Will he inadvertently ruin Sam’s graduation? And the real question, the one that shouldn’t be weighing on him so heavily, but is anyway; what will Dean’s family think of him?

 _It’s all fake, it shouldn’t matter_ , he reminds himself, scrubbing his hands over his face and grimacing at the stubble lining his jaw. _It doesn’t matter if Dean’s family likes you. It’s not like you’ll be sticking around._

And that just begs the question. What if they do end up liking him, and then they announce their divorce? Which would be worse; apathy or heartbreak?

This is too much for him to think about right now. He’ll deal with this mess in the morning – for now, he’s just going to pretend that he’s not meeting the Winchesters and tipping everyone’s world on its head tomorrow. Instead, he’s going to shower, get rid of this damn stubble, then go and find out what Dean has managed to source in terms of dinner.

A heavy sigh punctuates Castiel’s movement, and he stands, tugging his shirt off over his head in a swift, economical motion. He doesn’t bother closing the blinds – they’re pretty high up, and right now he couldn’t care less if anyone in a neighbouring building is watching him.

His jeans quickly follow suit, though he doesn’t allow them to remain crumpled on the floor for long – his shirt and pants are neatly folded on top of his suitcase and, after a moment of deliberation, his boxers follow suit. If Dean’s out, he’s going to damn well walk around their rooms buck naked. No one can stop him.

That thought, of retaking his independence even just a little, buoys him up just slightly, and he allows a small smile to pull up the corners of his mouth as he grabs his toiletry bag from his carry-on and makes his way out of his bedroom.

He’s humming to himself as he crosses the living space towards the closed bathroom door – a soft little Russian tune. In hindsight, that is probably the reason that he didn’t wonder just _why_ the bathroom door was closed, or notice the sound of the shower shutting off, or register the fact that the door he’d heard close earlier had lacked the distinctly audible _click_ that could be heard whenever the lock on the apartment door was engaged.

So, really, it’s no surprise that when he places a hand on the bathroom doorknob and twists, shifting his weight forward to follow through with the movement, the door is suddenly pulled out from under him faster than he expects, and he loses his balance with a sound that he later vehemently argues wasn’t a yelp.

Castiel stumbles forwards into the bathroom and his foot lands on a steam-slick tile, skidding out from under him and sending him careening into the very tall, very damp, very _naked_ Dean Winchester who had pulled the bathroom door open without expecting one just as naked Castiel Novak to be waiting on the other side. The momentum behind Castiel knocks them both off balance, and Dean’s hands come up to Castiel’s sides in a surprised and reflexive movement to try and steady them both, even as his foot slides backwards on the tile. It’s only thanks to the well-placed bathmat another step back that the two of them don’t go down completely, as Dean manages to stabilize them without slipping over on the bathroom tiles.

Which leaves Castiel staring up into his assistant’s eyes in shock, pressed against him from knee to chest, steam still billowing around them as a result of Dean’s shower as it tries to escape out the now-open door.

Castiel knew Dean’s eyes were green, but he’d never realised just _how_ green until he’s staring at them from up close, unable to process what on earth just happened, let alone how to untangle himself. His assistant is so _warm_ , his skin shower-flushed and damp. It’s messing with Castiel’s mind in all kinds of ways.

Dean is just staring back at him, his eyes wide, untraceable emotions flitting across their green depths. His hand, splayed across Castiel’s ribs to keep him upright, twitches, shifts. His lips are parted in shock, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones, where a blush threatens to envelop the freckles dotted across his skin. For a few seconds, they’re still, unmoving, one breathing in where the other breathes out.

Dean somehow manages to get his brain online before Cas – when he steps back abruptly, Castiel finds himself almost ending up flat on his face once again, and Dean has to try to prop him up with one hand as his other scrambles frantically for a towel. The spell is broken.

“What the hell, man?” He barks out, the flush spreading down his neck now, reaching for the tips of his ears. Castiel stares down at the tiles as he manages to haul himself into an upright and balanced position – when he looks up, Dean has a towel wrapped around his hips, and even though he’s now partially covered, the rest of him is still just as bare and gorgeous.

Castiel drops his bag of toiletries to cover his genitals before the circumstances become any more precarious, his slight _situation_ only exacerbated by the sight of the droplets slowly working their way down Dean’s freckled chest and pooling in the dip of his hipbones.

That path only leads to trouble, so he tears his gaze away and fixes it back on Dean’s face. “You said you were going to find food!” He splutters, still not quite sure how they’ve ended up in this position, or in the other position, pressed up against each other like sculptures hewn from the same marble. “I heard the door close, I thought you’d left, so I was going to have a shower.”

“So you were walking around the apartment _naked_?” Dean exclaims, eyes wide, appearing as though he’d throw his hands into the air in frustration if one of them weren’t currently holding up his towel. He utters a sound of disbelief and discomfort, but can’t quite look Castiel in the eye – as if he’s using his frustration and confusion as a shield for the unrecognisable emotions that Castiel can see threatening to overwhelm him.

A droplet of water slides down the column of his throat, and Castiel feels the deep-seated urge to flatten his tongue over it. His fingers twitch abortively around the grip he has on his bag, but before he can move or do anything stupid that he’ll come to regret, Dean is picking his way past Castiel as fast as he can until his damp feet are sinking into soft carpet.

It’s definitely for the best.

The bathroom door slams closed behind the fleeing man, leaving Castiel to wonder what the _fuck_ just happened. At least, from Dean’s actions, he knows he wasn’t the only one flustered by their little… _entanglement._

Now alone in the confines of the bathroom, Castiel sets his bag of toiletries aside on the counter and glares balefully down at his erection. This is just another aspect of the disorienting maelstrom of his own creation that threatens to overwhelm him. He’d never thought it would be this complicated, and yet it’s growing more so by the minute.

His mind keeps playing Dean’s movements on loop in his mind’s eye – the bob of his throat, the damp hair curling behind his ears, the way his plush lips parted around a soft gasp. He can’t help being pulled in, further and further down the rabbit hole.

It takes all of Castiel’s willpower not to wrap a hand around his aching length. Instead, he crosses the small room to the shower, still damp and steam-clouded from use. He doesn’t think of Dean, naked and basking beneath the water. Instead, he turns the tap on cold and hisses between his teeth as he steps under the spray. It’s cold, shockingly so, chilling him down to the core and the very essence of his being, stealing the air from his lungs. His head clears, his erection flags, and he scrubs himself down in record time – turning the water off just after his teeth start to chatter.

In comparison, the bathroom feels warm as he steps out of the shower. Castiel breathes in the lasts remnants of steam definitely not caused by his own freezing shower as he rubs himself vigorously with his towel to aid his circulation. At least he’s not shivering any more, and his cock hangs soft between his legs.

He can’t let his own lust cloud his judgement, even if he hasn’t gotten laid in… god knows how long. This is just a business deal. A marriage of convenience.

Castiel repeats that over and over again in his head as he wraps a towel around his waist and stares into the mirror. The man who blinks back at him looks… tired. He wonders if anyone in the street or the office sees him, and _really_ sees him, not just the façade he raises.

He gets the feeling that Dean comes the closest to achieving just that.

In the end, his shaving kit stays in his bag, and Castiel decides that he can deal with the stubble for one more day. He doesn’t have to adhere to the rules of the office now. He’s on ‘holiday’, even if it doesn’t feel like it. His mind is working too hard, too fast, for that, trying to make sense of the mess of emotions that each have a hold on him, and it hasn’t even been a _day_. He hasn’t even met Dean’s family yet. But he can’t get attached, even on a purely base level. He won’t. Dean is his assistant and is doing him a favour, however huge. It’s only a favour.

When Castiel walks out of the bathroom, towel securely fastened around his hips because he’d thought he was alone and hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes with him, he finds that their little apartment is empty. The door to Dean’s room is open, and the only clue Castiel has as to Dean’s whereabouts is scrawled on a white piece of note paper that has been left on the dining table.

Gone to get food. Be back soon. D

He’s seen his assistant’s handwriting on countless documents and memos and manuscripts over the past few years, but it’s only now that he takes the time to notice the slope to Dean’s scrawl, the loose formation of his letters that leaves them looking effortlessly casual but not sloppy. It’s so very different to Castiel’s own neat print.

His fingertips trace over the words for a second, itching to carry the note with him, but he leaves it on the table and pushes onwards into his room.

When he emerges five minutes later, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants with his damp hair sticking up in spikes, Dean is setting a full plastic bag on the dining table, sliding the note off the wooden surface and crumpling it in his fingers before slipping it into his pocket. Castiel clears his throat, and Dean turns to face him, his eyes lifting up from the floor and a blush blooming on his cheeks, no doubt at the memory of skin pressed against skin in a steam-swirling bathroom. Their eyes meet, and when Dean’s widen just slightly, Castiel realises that apart from today and his jeans, Dean has never seen him in anything less than a suit. It must be strange, to see one’s boss in such a casual state and attempt to equate that image to the one of propriety and formality presented at the office.

It’s inevitable that the lines begin to blur. Already have.

_It’s just a business deal._

_I’m only feeling this because I’m starved for socialisation and human interaction_ , he tells himself. This would happen with anyone, after he’s shut himself off for so long.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet, the silence stretching out between them, neither of them knowing what to say, two partners at a ball who’ve learned completely different steps. In the end, Dean rubs the back of his neck and gestures to the bag. “I got some Chinese from down the road,” he tells Castiel, and it’s only now that he notices the delicious smell that permeates the air and sends his stomach rumbling. “All the stuff they had on the room service menu was too fancy for me. I hope that was okay.”

Castiel is so used to being by himself and only catering to his own needs and whims that he hadn’t taken into account how Dean would feel about staying at such an upmarket hotel and flying in first class – but more than that, he hadn’t _known_ enough about Dean to be aware of his discomfort in these surroundings. How on earth is he going to be able to make this lie believable?

It’s just going to have to work. Castiel forces a small, tense smile and nods, stepping forwards to help Dean unpack their food. Out of the bag, it smells even better, and he realises just how long it’s been since he last ordered takeaway like this. Usually, he cooks his meals in bulk and freezes the rest for dinners for the rest of the week, or dines out at fancy restaurants with clients or high-ranking employees. Sitting down at the table and digging his chopsticks into the mess of noodles with Dean across from him feels so… normal.

They’re silent as they eat, but he can see Dean fidgeting, twisting his chopsticks round and round until he’s amassed such a huge knot of noodles that he couldn’t possibly fit it all in his mouth, and lets them go to melt back into the dish. Castiel just waits patiently, his gaze shifting between Dean and his dinner, as Dean grapples with whatever it is he wants to say.

Finally, he speaks.

“So… how you feeling about meeting my family tomorrow?” he asks, and Castiel releases a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. They’re not going to talk about… whatever the hell happened in the bathroom. Acting as if it never happened is probably best for everyone. Still… the topic of what they’re going to face tomorrow is not much better. Sometimes, he swears that his assistant has a sixth sense when it comes to reading his emotions, and now is no different; Dean has located the thought that is troubling him with ease.

He prods idly at a stray piece of beef as he considers his response. “Nervous,” he confesses, unwilling to meet Dean’s eyes. Admitting his uncertainty feels too much like baring himself for judgement, and losing the respect he fought so hard to gain – no matter that it’s only a small concession. Still, he forces himself to continue. “I mean, I’ve already messed up the hotel booking, and I didn’t even know that you’re afraid of flying.” Anxiety twists in his gut. “How am I going to make your parents believe that we’re engaged? That I even _know_ you?”

When Castiel finally glances up through his lashes, a response from Dean lacking, the man has turned his head, and is gazing out at the lights of the city skyline. He appears to be thinking, and it’s a few long moments before Castiel receives a reply.

“Look, just act as if you really, truly, like me, okay? If my parents see that you care for me, they won’t mind so much if it was a whirlwind romance and that there are things about me that you don’t know. As long as your emotion is there, my family will love you.”

Dean’s mouth twists, briefly marring the beauty of his profile, and Castiel wonders if Dean is sacrificing something so that he can fulfil this pantomime with him. How is this going to affect Dean – now, in the future, ten years down the line?

Before he can ask if the man is okay, the bitter expression is gone, and he’s turning back to Castiel with a light grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. The moment to ask is gone. “But I’m sure they’d believe us more if we actually had a ring. Shame about that.”

And at least that’s something Castiel can fix.

“Wait here,” he murmurs, placing his chopsticks delicately down on a napkin before abandoning his half-finished noodle dish and returning to his room. He leaves the door ajar behind him.

The thing he’s looking for is tucked into a pocket in his carry-on luggage, and Castiel pulls it out now, smoothing his fingers over the velour covering of the tiny box. When his grandparents had passed away within weeks of each other, seventeen-year-old Castiel had already known that he liked boys, however condemned that orientation was in Russian society. At that point, he’d accepted himself, even if he was still too nervous about coming out to the rest of his family.

While Inias had snatched up his grandmother’s ring to gift to whichever one of his pretty Russian girls he eventually decided to settle down with, Castiel had had no opposition in claiming his grandfather’s ring. The naïve teenager had believed that one day, he’d have someone to give it to, as a lifelong promise. That he’d find a wonderful man that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and that his grandfather’s ring would fit their finger perfectly.

It should feel wrong to give it to Dean, even temporarily, but his hands remain steady and his steps don’t falter as he returns to the living area and drops to one knee in front of Dean, whose eyes have gone wide in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the update! I love getting feedback, especially from the people who have subscribed, are avidly awaiting new updates, or have been here from the beginning. Feel free to comment or leave me a message on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), I would love to hear from you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this until Wednesday, but I felt bad about making you guys wait, so here it is. Next chapter will hopefully be posted Wednesday next week.
> 
> Full disclaimer: I am not American. When I graduated high school, it was low-key af, and neither me or my wonderful beta [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) have ever graduated college/uni, so we're taking some pretty wild stabs in the dark. If I make any mistakes... I'm sorry. That applies to anything American, either, though Makenna is generally pretty good at catching those for me.
> 
> Enjoy!

If someone had taken of photo of this moment, this very instant, and showed it to the Dean of a week ago, before any of this happened, he would’ve laughed in their face and praised their Photoshop skills. Because this? A rumpled-haired Castiel Novak down on one knee with an engagement ring, dressed in just a tshirt and sweats? There’s no way it’s possible.

Except, apparently, it is.

Dean can only stare down at his boss as Castiel solemnly opens the small box, revealing a thick silver band nestled inside. It looks a little scuffed, and the inside is worn smooth – he hopes this isn’t a ring that’s important to Cas. Because – and he has to keep reminding himself of this – it isn’t _real_.

It’s all just pretend – but that doesn’t stop the funny little flip that his stomach does when Cas asks, in his deep gravelly tone, “Dean, will you marry me?”

And that’s a very real possibility, isn’t it? That to actually secure Cas his visa, Dean might have to marry him, not just pretend to be engaged. And… he doesn’t know how he feels about that. It’s not like he has his eye on anybody else, or was planning to get married in the near future, but still… marrying someone is a big step. It’s… it’s pretty important, and it feels wrong to actually carry through with a wedding when it’s all just a farce.

It’s too late to back out now, though, so Dean clears his throat. “Yes,” he replies, his voice soft, cracking on the word. He can’t tear his gaze away from Cas’s solemn blue eyes – the situation so much more _serious_ than it should be. He could joke about it, brush it off to dispel the tension that sits heavy on his shoulders, but the words die on his tongue as Cas reaches for his left hand, his touch gentle and tentative.

Dean holds his breath as Castiel sets the box down on his knee and eases the ring out of its silken bed, and both of them watch as Cas slides the metal band onto his ring finger.

It fits perfectly.

When Castiel looks back up at Dean, his eyes are wide, some unreadable emotion in their depths as he straightens back up until they’re nearly eye to eye.

Castiel bites his lip, as if he’s unsure of what to do now, how to break or even leave this fragile bubble that they’ve created, where the real world and their status and differences aren’t important. Dean can’t look away, his gaze trailing down to Cas’s mouth.

On impulse, he leans forwards and presses his lips to Castiel’s, his hands coming up to gently cup either side of his face. After a moment of stillness, Cas reciprocates, pressing his hands to Dean’s chest and melting into the kiss as –

– Cas clears his throat, his gaze quizzical now, and Dean realises that he’s been staring at his boss’s mouth. His face flushes red, and he can feel it burning across his skin, all the way to the tips of his ears. _Fuck_. “I, uh, sorry,” he stammers, his fingers nervously twisting the engagement ring around and around his finger. It already feels _right_. “I… I got lost in thought.”

Now Castiel just looks concerned, and Dean resists the urge to scrub a hand over his face to try and hide a blush that he knows must be attempting to eclipse his freckles by now. “Sorry,” he repeats, and his feet carry him back a few stumbling steps. “I think I’m just tired. I’m gonna go head to bed, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He’s rambling now, his words tripping over each other too fast, and when Cas takes a step towards him, he all but spins on the ball of his foot and flees back to the relative safety of his room where there are no confusing men with blue eyes and fake marriage proposals to take his mind and twist it until he doesn’t know what’s real and which way is up.

Just before he closes his bedroom door behind himself, he hears Castiel say, very softly, “Good night, Dean.”

 _How has everything gone to shit already?_ Dean collapses onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling, the engagement ring sitting heavy on his finger. It hasn’t even been a day, and already his thoughts are muddling, now that he’s seeing this softer side of the sharp-edged man he’s used to seeing every day at the office. On the plane trip, he hadn’t been Novak, but Castiel. On one knee in front of Dean, he hadn’t been Castiel, but Cas. And in the bathroom, earlier?  He’d been the hottest fucking guy Dean has ever _seen_. Who knew what his boss was hiding under that ugly trenchcoat and those suits?

And _that_ is exactly the kind of thinking that is going to get Dean into trouble over the next few days. If he can’t separate his emotions from his duty, work-Novak from sweats-Cas… He’s well and truly fucked. And not in the fun way.

Dean groans and presses his palms to his cheeks. The band around his ring finger feels cool against his flushed skin, and he pulls one hand back to examine it. The ring looks a little scuffed on the outside, as if it’s been worn a lot and in rough conditions, but from its shine and the quality of the silver, it’s very clear that the piece of jewellery has been well looked after. When he slides it off his finger and peers at the inside, he can make out an engraving. Its edges have been softened and smoothed from the ring’s use, but the letters are still clear – they seem to be Russian characters.

навсегда.

Dean frowns down at the ring, squinting at the characters in the light of his bedside lamp. If they were in the English alphabet, it would be easy enough to put them through his phone and translate them, but since they’re in the Russian alphabet… Dean isn’t sure what to do. He’ll have to ask Cas.

No matter their direct translation, though, it’s clear that the ring carries some kind of promise or declaration of love. If it were just something that Cas had purchased for Dean and their fake marriage, no doubt the ring would be shiny and new and unadorned. This one, though, with its scuffs and careful care and faded Russian inscription… it clearly holds some kind of sentimental value. He shouldn’t have it, not when Cas doesn’t love him – hell, probably doesn’t even like him. He’s just Cas’s employee, after all. It’s only thanks to his convenient timing that they’re here at all.

Dean ruminates on his situation as he gets himself ready for bed, looking out over the lights of the San Francisco skyline as he twists the ring around his finger over and over again. As he’s climbing beneath the covers, dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt, he resolves to return the ring to Cas as soon as there’s an opportunity to get a new one that doesn’t carry such heavy meaning with it. He’ll feel better then.

By the time he’s snoring softly into his pillow, his left hand is curled into a loose fist and resting over his heart, the silver ring glinting in the ambient city light.

Unfortunately for him, Dean’s bladder wakes him only a few hours later. He grumbles as he hauls himself out of bed, resigned to a quick trip to the bathroom, and opens his door a crack.

The TV is still on.

Dean’s brows pull down into a frown, and he pushes the door open further. It’s playing a documentary on bees, and Dean rubs at his eyes as he watches them crawl across a beekeeper’s white-gloved hand, wondering if he’s imagining things again. The white glow from the TV is the only thing lighting the main living area, and from its dim light, Dean can see the top of Cas’s dark head poking up above the top of the couch.

“Cas?” He calls softly.

No answer.

He tries again, padding closer on quiet, bare feet, and again hears nothing except for the soothing tones of the documentary’s narrator. When he rounds the couch, and realises why he hasn’t yet received an answer to his quiet calls, he can’t help the fond smile that pulls at his lips.

Cas is slumped down low on the couch, his head tucked in against his chest, and from the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, Dean figures he must be asleep. On the couch beside him is the open, half-eaten bag of Reese’s Pieces.

The sight tugs at Dean’s heart more than it should.

He takes a moment to absorb the sight of a sleeping Castiel, because it’s just too adorable _not to_ , and then reaches for the remote to switch the TV off. Without its glow lighting the room, Dean has to rely on the city light that filters through the giant window, and blinks a few times as he waits for his eyes to adjust. Once it has, he scoops up the bag of Reese’s Pieces and sets them down on the coffee table, out of harm’s way.

For a second, he entertains the thought of simply carrying Cas to bed, but once he slides his arms beneath his boss’s thighs and back and goes to lift him, he realises that Castiel is composed of some pretty solid muscle, and Dean is just too damn tired for the physical exertion of lifting him. Instead, he shifts the man so that he’s lying stretched out along the couch – luckily, he’s only wearing his sweats and a t-shirt, which shouldn’t be uncomfortable to sleep in, so Dean doesn’t have to figure out if he has the mental willpower to undress his boss. Finally, he grabs one of the folded-up blankets from the other couch and drapes it over Cas, nodding to himself as he admires his handiwork. Much more comfortable than sleeping upright.

Now that Cas is looked after, Dean can make his trip to the bathroom; on his way back, he can’t resist checking up on the man one last time before he goes back to bed.

Cas has shifted in his sleep, and he’s now stretched out on his side, one fist curled around the hem of the blanket where it’s tucked up under his chin. It’s too adorable for words, and Dean can’t help but reach down and brush a stray lock of hair off Cas’s forehead before making his way back into his room and closing the door behind him. 

Sleep is a little slower to come, after that.

Come morning, Dean is the first to rise. He’d be damned if he missed Sam’s graduation ceremony because of a faulty alarm, so he’d checked and double checked his phone before falling asleep, and it wakes him right at 8, just as it’s supposed to. He puts his arms over his head and stretches, groaning blissfully at the pop of his vertebrae as he grins up at the ceiling. Today, he gets to see his family again. Today, Sammy is graduating, and no amount of confusion or anxiety over his ‘engagement’ with Cas can ruin his excitement.

He carries the covers with him as he rolls over towards the edge of the bed, twisted around his hips as they are, and it costs him a few seconds to untangle himself before he can sink his bare feet into the plush carpet beside his bed. God _damn_. If he had that kind of money, he’d totally get the same carpet for his apartment back in New York.

The first thing Dean does, from his seat at the edge of the mattress, is dial room service. The menu may be full of fancy shit, but at least they can make him some good old bacon and eggs, and _coffee_ , which is the really important one. Even in this weird pseudo-relationship of theirs, he doesn’t want to face Castiel in the morning without him having had a coffee.

The kitchen takes his order for two serves of bacon and eggs, one unsweetened soy latte, and one Americano, promising that it will be delivered to his room shortly, and Dean’s grin is even wider at the prospect of a good breakfast as he hangs up. Not wanting to risk the dragon’s ire by waking Cas up without coffee, Dean hangs around in his room and plays on his phone, his bedroom door left ajar so that he can hear the sharp, loud rap on the door when the food arrives.

His stomach rumbling, Dean bounds out of bed and breezes out of his room, making a beeline for the front door. He opens it to find a staff member bearing a silver tray with their breakfast, and relieves them of it before they can react with a smile and a, “Thank you!”

From the way he can still hear their spluttered protestations through the door even after he knocks it shut with his foot, he guesses that that wasn’t the proper protocol, but he really couldn’t care less. When Dean turns away from the door, he finds Castiel peering groggily at him over the back of the couch, his expression disgruntled and hair sticking up in every possible direction.

Usually, Dean would be bowing and scraping and pushing Cas’s coffee at him in order to keep his job, but this morning he just laughs as he sets the tray down on their small dining table. “Morning, sleepyhead. I don’t understand why you went to all the trouble of paying for a fancy bed if you were just gonna fall asleep on the couch, y’know.”

Castiel blinks at him, then slowly twists his head to take in his surroundings, as if he’s only now noticing where he is.

“I fell asleep on the couch,” he says to himself, his voice sleep-rough and groggy.

This time, Dean manages to suppress his laughter behind the rim of his coffee mug as he sips at his Americano. “You sure did, bud,” he agrees. “Was it a good bee documentary?”

Castiel’s blue eyes narrow into a glare, as if he thinks Dean is mocking him, and even though they’re not associating in a boss/employee capacity right now, Dean backtracks. Cas can be a scary motherfucker. “I don’t mean anything by it. Just asking,” he defends, and it’s enough for Cas’s glare to decrease from smite-level, at least. “Your coffee’s up here by the way.” If he wants to avoid putting his foot in his mouth and making Castiel furious with him, it’s best to get some coffee into the man, so Cas doesn’t end up becoming irritated by _everything_ that comes out of Dean’s mouth.

The offer of coffee seems to entice Cas, who draws the blanket up around his shoulders and shuffles over to the table with it wrapped around him. He doesn’t speak, just blinks at Dean in his disgruntled, owl-like way before reaching for his mug and taking a long pull. When he realises that it’s his favourite, he smiles at Dean – the barest thing, but almost a full-blown grin from morning-Cas – as if he’s forgotten that Dean is the one who buys him his coffee every morning.

The lines are already blurring, and that realisation sobers Dean a little as he sets his mug down and reaches for his plate of breakfast.

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got you some bacon and eggs,” Dean tells Castiel as the man takes a seat at the table, still wrapped in his blanket, with his fingers clutching the steaming mug of coffee. He’s never been around Castiel when the man has been eating his breakfast, just lunches and dinners, so he isn’t sure as to his boss’s preferences. Luckily, Castiel nods, mumbles out a, “Thank you,” and continues to drink his coffee until the mug is more than halfway empty.

Despite Castiel’s slightly more lively disposition now that he’s been somewhat caffeinated, they eat in silence. Being around Castiel again, caught in that muddle of confusion between boss and fiancé, is messing with Dean’s head and dampening his excitement at seeing Sam graduate somewhat. Still, he can’t let it ruin his day. “We should leave at nine, the graduation starts at ten,” he tells Castiel, who is too busy chewing a mouthful of egg to reply verbally, so just nods. “Bring your bag, too, because after the graduation we’re all going to be hopping on a flight back to Kansas.”

At this, Castiel’s brows furrow, and Dean is reminded of the fact that Cas didn’t actually _want_ to come to Kansas with him. But it’s for Sam’s graduation celebration, for all their family friends, and Dean will be damned if he misses it, so he frowns right back at Cas. It seems to startle the man somewhat, evidently unused to that kind of opposition. He peers at Dean for a few more seconds before returning his attention to his meal, and Dean can’t help but smile to himself in the knowledge that he won that little encounter.

Not long after, the two of them finish their breakfast, and Dean stacks the used dishes neatly on the tray before setting it out in the hallway, just outside their door. At that point, it’s not long until they have to leave, and he doesn’t see much of Cas as the two of them are each going through the routine of getting themselves ready and packing their bags – not that there had been much unpacking last night.

Dean is dressed and carrying his bag with him into the living area on one shoulder when Cas reappears from the bathroom. He’s clean-shaven now, and Dean finds that he almost misses the short stubble that had been lining Cas’s jaw last night and this morning. He had seemed more… open. Less like the terrifying boss that Dean knows him to be back in New York. At least he’s dressed down a little, though, wearing just a pair of jeans and a button-down. Something else seems off about him, though, and it takes Dean longer than it should to realise that Cas has combed him hair.

Shit, he _must_ be nervous about meeting Dean’s family. Dean hopes that he hasn’t made a mistake in keeping their presence at Sam’s graduation a secret. He just wanted to surprise them, since they had sounded so disappointed that Dean wouldn’t be able to come.

Dean still has his graduation ticket, and he just managed to get Cas one too, as well as scrambling to book two of the few remaining seats on the flight that he knows his parents are taking back to Kansas. Hopefully, everything goes just as smoothly with his family.

Still, when Castiel reappears from his room with his suitcase, Dean can see the tense set of his shoulders, and gives him a reassuring smile in the hopes of relaxing him. “They’re going to like you, Cas, don’t worry,” he tells his boss. In reality, though, he’s not one hundred percent sure on that, and Castiel seems to share his opinion, as he simply gives a small shrug and looks down at the floor.

There’s really no easy way to go about this, and no amount of talking is going to help, either – they may as well just jump in feet-first and see what happens. That’s always been Dean’s style, after all – from what Dean knows of Cas, he seems the opposite, but Dean can’t let him overthink it.

Instead, he musters up the brightest grin he can and hoists his bag higher on his shoulder. “We should head off,” he tells Cas, and his excitement at seeing his family practically vibrates the air as he bounces over to the door. When Dean looks back over his shoulder to check if Cas is coming, he finds his boss watching him, the corner of his mouth turned up in a soft smile.

 Dean tilts his head, and Castiel follows, dragging his small suitcase behind him as they leave the room and pull the door closed behind them. The trip down to the lobby is quiet, the silence between them mostly comfortable, aside from the anxiety they share about introducing the ‘engagement’ (and, furthermore, Dean’s boss, who his family thinks is a huge dick) that permeates the air between them.

The fancily dressed people swanning by as they head to the front desk still side-eye Dean and Cas in their jeans and casual dress, but right now Dean is a jangling mix of pure nerves and excitement, and he just winks at them until they give a haughty huff of displeasure and glide away. He shifts from foot to foot as Castiel checks them out of the hotel and settles the bill, casting amused glances across at his assistant every so often as Dean continually checks the time on his phone and paces back and forth across the marble-tiled walkway. Finally, everything is in order, and Dean is quick to fall back in against Castiel’s side as they make their way outside to the street.

“You seem very excited,” Castiel points out.

Dean gives him a look that very clearly translates to, _no shit_ , even as he bounces on the balls of his feet. “I haven’t seen my family in ages, man,” he replies, hailing down the first taxi that he sees. He barely restrains from wrapping a hand around Cas’s wrist to drag him over as it pulls in against the curb. “What with work and everything, I barely ever have time.”

Dean makes it halfway to the waiting taxi when he realises that Cas isn’t with him, and he frowns as he turns back around.

Castiel is standing right where Dean left him, his shoulders slumped a little and his browns drawn together into an unhappy frown as he stares down at the pavement. Dean sighs and backtracks, but Cas still doesn’t look up. It’s only when Dean reaches out to touch him lightly on the shoulder that the man finally lifts his head to meet Dean’s gaze. “I’m sorry I don’t let you see your family very often, Dean,” he mumbles, and _fuck_ , he sounds miserable. “I suppose that I forget how important it is, not having any family of my own.”

Sure, it’s shit not to be able to see his family as much as he wants to, but there are other factors to take into account. Sam being at college, the plane trip… it’s not just Cas, and it sucks to see him beat himself up this way. “Cas, it’s fine,” Dean tells him, closing the grip on his shoulder into a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, it’s just part of the job. Living so far away, of course I won’t get to see them as much as I want to. It’s not all on you.”

There’s still doubt in Castiel’s blue gaze, and Dean squeezes his shoulder again, giving him a smile. “If you want to make up for it, you can haul ass to the taxi right now. The sooner we get in, the sooner I get to see them, okay?” And that seems to acceptable for Cas, because the frown lines on his face smooth out just slightly, and he nods. Before Dean can process anything, Castiel has his fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrist and is pulling him through the crowd towards their taxi.

While Dean helps the driver stow their luggage in the trunk, Castiel reprises the role of dragon-Novak that Dean is so used to, and his terrifying demeanour scares off any people who had entertained thoughts of fighting them for their taxi or protesting their claim to it. Soon enough, the two of them are tucked into the backseat, on their way to Stanford University.

Dean spends the first ten minutes giving Cas a short crash course on his family – basic information about John, Mary, and Sam – and then they spend the rest of the ride in silence, each stewing in their nerves and, in Dean’s case, trying not to show his excitement. Cas munches on the remainder of his Reese’s Pieces to calm himself, and Dean spends his time looking out the window as the scenery goes by.

The closer they get to the college, the busier the traffic gets, with cars backed up as far as they can see. Eventually, after five minutes with the taxi stationary, Dean convinces the taxi driver to just let them out here. Despite Cas’s protests, Dean pays him out of his own wallet, and then they’re making their way down the street towards the university, Castiel with his suitcase and Dean with his duffle bag over his shoulder.

He isn’t expecting to find his parents until they get inside the auditorium, and is resigned to having to haul his bag along with them (he has no idea how security will like that), but when he spots a head of blonde hair in the crowd, Dean breaks out into a radiant grin. Without thinking, he catches Castiel’s hand in his own and pulls him along the sidewalk, the two of them weaving through the crowd until Dean spies his mom leaning up against a rental car that’s been parked on the side of the street. His heart swells in his chest.

“Mom!” he calls, shouting it louder when she doesn’t turn the first time. By the time Mary Winchester has recognised that the voice calling her name is her son’s and is turning towards them, Dean and Castiel are almost on top of her, and Dean is letting go of Cas’s hand to wrap her in a tight hug. Her eyes go wide with shock, and then her expression melts into one of pure happiness and she wraps her arms around Dean’s neck, hugging him back.

After a few seconds, they pull apart, and Mary beams up at Dean as she rubs his shoulders fondly. “It’s so wonderful to see you, honey! I didn’t think you were coming, didn’t you have to work?” She hasn’t noticed Cas yet, so when Dean steps back away from her and gives the man a soft smile and encouraging nod, her gaze slides across to Dean’s companion. Now, there’s an edge of confusion to her joy.

Castiel looks extremely out of his comfort zone, and runs a nervous hand through his hair as he steps up beside Dean – completely ruining his previous combing efforts, much to Dean’s amusement.

“Mom, this is Castiel,” he tells Mary, and from the way her eyes narrow, she instantly recognises the name as belonging to the boss who has run Dean ragged for the past two years in New York. Damn it, he’s going to have to try and reverse that negative perception of Cas if this is ruse going to have any chance of success. Dean takes a deep breath, and takes Castiel’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He holds up his other hand, the engagement ring glinting in the sunlight.

“He’s also my fiancé.”

Mary’s eyes go impossibly wide, and her hands fly up to cover her mouth. Castiel is rigid and anxious beside him, and Dean squeezes his hand to try and reassure him, though in actual fact he has no idea how his mom is going to react.

He isn’t entirely expecting it when she surges forward and wraps them both in a tight hug. Dean, relieved, melts into the embrace, but Castiel stays frozen, evidently unused to this kind of affection from strangers. Dean can see the shock in his expression, but he also sees that, a few moments later, it softens into a gentler expression, and Cas relaxes into the hug a little more.

Finally, Mary pulls back, tucking a few stray hairs away behind his ear (though his hair is short enough on the sides that Dean is pretty sure it’s a pointless but affectionate gesture) and smiles happily at both of them. “Dean, honey, I’m so happy for you, but this is such a surprise! All that we’ve heard about you, Castiel, is that you’re Dean’s boss.”

Castiel shuffles his feet awkwardly, and Dean knows that he’s going to have to come up with a convincing reason for their secrecy. Mary’s clever, and she’ll know if there’s something not quite right. “We didn’t want to upset things in the office,” Dean tells her, “and it was such a whirlwind romance that I didn’t really know what to tell you guys, until Cas popped the question.” Dean smiles over at Cas – he finds that he doesn’t even really need to act for it to be warm and sweet. “So I knew you guys just had to meet him. I told you that I had to stay and work because we wanted it to be a surprise.”

Dean finds himself on the receiving end of one of Mary’s patented truth-searching gazes, her eyes slightly narrowed as she watches her eldest son and absorbs the information that he’s just given her. Thankfully, she seems to accept it, and after a few moments she lets out a sigh. “My two boys, all grown up,” she murmurs. “One engaged, one graduating college…” Her smile, while happy, is tinged with sadness.

Another voice breaks the mood.

“Mary? I’ve paid for the parking, we have to go or we won’t get a–” John Winchester stops dead at the sight before him, his mouth working open and closed as he notices Dean, notices the man next to him, notices their clasped hands.

John Winchester has known about Dean’s bisexuality for almost as long as Mary has, but he’s never been quite accepting. He’s much more reserved than Mary had been when he closes the distance to their little group, and asks, “And who might this be?”

It would have been so much easier to tell his parents at the same time – now Dean will have to tell John, and later tell Sam. Still, he steels himself and straightens his spine. “This is Castiel, Dad. My boss, and my fiancé.”

John squints at Castiel, who thankfully doesn’t shrink under the searching gaze, and even seems to stand a little taller in the face of it. “I thought you hated this guy?” John’s gaze turns back to Dean, who can’t help but give a little chuckle.

“Sure, he works me hard, but he’s really a pretty great boss, as long as he’s got coffee in him.” He gives Castiel a wry glance. “And once I got to know him outside of the office… It was a no-brainer, really.”

To Dean’s surprise, John chuckles as he steps forward to shake Cas’s hand. Castiel knows how to conduct himself in situations like this, and John seems impressed by the firmness of the man’s handshake when he steps back. “I knew you were overcompensating when you told us how much you disliked him,” John tells Dean, sharing a smile with Mary. He looks as though he wants to ask more questions, and Dean knows that he’s in for an interrogation later, but right now, Mary catches her husband’s arm.

“Come on, you lot, we don’t want to be late for Sam’s big day, do we?”

And that is a very good point. Dean wouldn’t miss this for the world. Dean and Cas leave their bags in the trunk of the car, and Mary pulls John away through the crowd – Cas and Dean follow at a short distance, still holding hands. Castiel still looks anxious, and Dean bumps his shoulder gently against Cas’s. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Cas looks as though he disagrees, but he shakes his head anyway. “No, Dean. Your mother is quite lovely. I just hope that I don’t mess this up. I’m not the best with people.” The man’s nervousness is clear in every angle of his body, and Dean wishes he knew how to help. Sure, it was Cas who got him into this mess, but they’re in it together now, for better or for worse.

The thought makes him chuckle.

“Just be yourself, Cas,” he murmurs into the man’s ear as Mary looks back at them from the entrance to the auditorium, and her expression goes fond as she sees the two of them so close. “They’re going to like you, don’t worry. I know I do.”

When he pulls back, he finds Castiel looking up at him with surprise in his blue eyes, as if hearing Dean say that is a shock, and Dean just doesn’t understand why. Sure, he wasn’t Cas’s biggest fan back in New York, but the last twenty-four hours he’s spent with Cas have shown him a completely different side of his boss, and it’s one that he really does like.

They have to hurry to get to the doors, as Mary is waving at them now, across the crowd of people, but as they reach his mom, Dean feels a gentle squeeze around his hand and a soft whisper in his ear.

“Thank you, Dean.”

And damn it, that shouldn’t warm Dean’s heart as much as it does, but it’s all he can think about as they make their way into the auditorium for the graduation ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> навсегда = forever
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Honestly, the more positive feedback I get on my works, the more it makes me want to write for them. So if you liked it, either let me know via comment or kudos, or send me an ask/message on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com). Also, I would love to know if you guys prefer the split POV chapters, or the completely Dean or Cas POV chapters like the last two have been.
> 
> Love y'all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! I'm trying my best not to keep them any further apart than two weeks, I promise.
> 
> Thank you to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) again for beta-ing and fixing all the errors I made in reference to the American airline system.
> 
> Enjoy!

Even without hearing Sam Winchester’s last name read out by the master of ceremonies, Castiel can tell which of the graduating students is Dean’s brother as soon as he steps onto the stage.

Firstly, because the almost scarily tall man matches Dean’s descriptions of him perfectly. Dean spoke near constantly of his little brother around the office – usually not to Castiel, but he often overhead Dean chatting to the other employees about him. The topic of the conversations (driven predominantly by Dean and his evident pride for his younger sibling) ranged from boasting about Sam’s scores in pre-Law to complaining about the length of his hair. Castiel doesn’t think it’s an unusual length. In fact, it suits him. He won’t tell Dean that, though.

And secondly, he knows that it’s Sam when the man appears because of the way the three Winchesters seated beside him all burst into loud cheering, and Dean even pumps his fist in the air. Even from where they’re sitting, Castiel can see the blush that colours Sam’s cheeks, but he’s smiling as he accepts his diploma, and Castiel can’t help but reflect the expression as he glances between Dean and the stage.

It’s strange to see a family so supportive of one another, and Castiel is still smiling to himself as the next person is called up, and Dean settles back into his seat now that Sam’s moment of glory is over. Dean catches him looking, and even in the dim lighting of the auditorium house, Castiel can see the bright happiness in his eyes and the lopsided curve to his smile.

“What’s up, Cas?”

Castiel blinks, a thousand different thoughts running through his head. How Dean and his family are so supportive and loving. How Castiel’s own college graduation had certainly not contained a cacophony of cheering and whistling as he received his diploma. How beautiful Dean looks with his face lit up in happiness. How Castiel doesn’t deserve to be part of this family, especially not now that he is deceiving them.

Dean is still looking at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel answers instead, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unconvincing smile that pulls Dean’s brows into a small frown. His assistant isn’t fooled – but Castiel isn’t willing to part with any one of his thousand private thoughts, and so he tries to convey his apology with a glance before returning his gaze to the front. Dean watches him through the rest of the ‘W’ section, his eyes burning into Castiel’s skin, but eventually gives up and shifts his attention elsewhere.

Their hands became separated when Dean half-stood to cheer Sam, and Castiel already misses the comforting weight of the man’s palm in his.

Proceeding through the students of ‘X’, ‘Y’ and ‘Z’ doesn’t take much time at all, and soon enough Castiel is following John, Mary and Dean back outside, where he squints against the sun. He isn’t quite sure how long they were in there, waiting for Sam’s appearance as seemingly hundreds of students cycled on and off the stage, but apparently it was long enough for his eyes to now be complaining at the sudden glare.

Dean is apparently undergoing the same troubles, because he shields his eyes with his hand and grumbles under his breath about “fuckin’ California,” which Castiel finds amusing simply because of the way Dean glares in the general direction of the sun, as if it has wronged him personally. He stays by the man’s side as the four of them try to find Sam, because he really doesn’t fancy the prospect of getting lost in the huge swarm of people that has descended onto the campus of Stanford University.

As much as he wants to take Dean’s hand again and use it as a lifeline – because that way, if they get lost, they get lost together – he forces himself to refrain. He doesn’t have that right, not really. It doesn’t mean anything that Castiel’s grandfather’s ring sits on Dean’s left ring finger, sparkling in the sun that Dean cursed out only minutes ago. It’s all just for show.

Dean, with an obvious height advantage over his other three companions, spots his little brother first. Sam stands a full head higher than the majority of the crowd, which makes Dean’s task much easier. “Sammy!” he crows proudly, and Castiel is just tall enough to see the way that Sam’s face splits into an even bigger grin of surprise and happiness as he spots Dean in the crowd.

John and Mary reach Sam first, since Dean was lagging behind with Castiel, and as such, the youngest Winchester is only sandwiched even further between pairs of hugging arms as Dean throws himself into the little knot and reaches a hand up to ruffle Sam’s hair.

Castiel finds himself smiling fondly as he watches Sam squawk and try to bat Dean’s hands away, even while Mary has Sam’s arms nearly pinned to his sides with the strength of her hug. It’s a beautiful, intimate family image, and not one that Castiel is at all familiar with.

Finally, the Winchesters break apart – Sam is still grumbling to himself as he tries to smooth down his hair and rub Mary’s faintly lipsticked kiss from his cheek. Dean is still grinning, and looks back at Castiel, tilting his head in a gesture of _come here_ that gives Cas no option but to step closer.

They’ve managed to pull out of the crowd now, and there are less people on the fringe, which gives them a little more breathing room. The five of them are arranged into a rough circle, and Castiel places himself by Dean’s side because being close to the man is reassuring, and he needs all the help he can get to make a good impression on Dean’s family. He already knows that they are the type to love with their whole entire hearts, and Castiel can’t help but crave just a taste of that, even if it’s only for a few days.

Sam is the first to break the silence, beaming at Dean. “Dude! I didn’t think you were coming! Didn’t your jerk boss tell you to stay back and work or something?”

Dean, Mary and John – the ones who know just who Cas is and his significance – all collectively wince, and Castiel feels his heart sink to his stomach. He really had been disconnected from his employees, especially Dean – he just had no idea that he was being so harsh. He hadn’t had any intention of acting in that way – families and personal commitments are such a foreign concept to him.

Dean bites his lip and glances sideways at Castiel, who forces the corners of his mouth up in a smile that really isn’t convincing anyone. “About that,” Dean tells Sam, who tilts his head. His long brown hair falls into his eyes, and he brushes it away distractedly with the back of his hand, his focus completely fixed on Dean.

When Dean’s hand reaches for his, their knuckles bumping before Dean’s fingers find his and gently interlace until their palms are pressed together. Castiel hopes his isn’t too sweaty – he’ll just be happy when all the introductions are over. This is all making him too nervous, and he can’t look at Sam when Dean speaks.

“This is Cas. He’s my boss.” Dean holds up his left hand, and Sam’s jaw drops as he takes in the sight of the ring on Dean’s finger. “And my fiancé.”

Castiel peers up at Sam, pressing his shoulder against Dean’s for physical comfort as he tries to figure out how the youngest Winchester is taking the news. Sam’s jaw is still hanging open, and his gaze repeatedly shifts from Dean to Castiel and back again, as if he just can’t process what’s in front of him. Castiel doesn’t blame him – it sounds like Dean has had few nice things to say about him, and yet now they’re planning to be married? He clears his throat and looks down at the grass beneath his feet.

Eventually, Sam seems to gather himself enough to be able to formulate words, and Castiel can feel Sam’s gaze on him, heavy. He forces himself to look up, to meet apologetic hazel eyes. “I… I’m sorry, Cas, I didn’t realise… I…”

It’s obvious that he’s struggling to figure out what to say, how to smooth out the situation, and Castiel just can’t watch it any more. “It’s fine, Sam,” he tells the man, waving his hand in a small, dismissive gesture. _Please just get this over with_. The sooner he’s been introduced to everyone, the sooner he can go back to spending most of his time with Dean. “Please, don’t worry about it.”

Sam still looks unsure, but Castiel forces his mouth into a smile, and it must look at least semi-convincing because he doesn’t push the matter any further. Instead, Sam smiles in return and reaches out a hand. “Well, nice to meet you, Cas,” he says, and Castiel nods as he takes Sam’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Nice to meet you too, Sam.”

There’s still a lingering awkwardness in the small group, and Castiel is under no illusions as to the source. He stays quiet as Dean and his family chatter, though Dean is careful not to let Cas’s hand go, for which he is very grateful for. Sam says goodbye to several of his friends, and there are lots of photos taken, and then finally Mary is reminding them of their flight and ushering them back towards the car. Out of the crowds, Castiel can breathe a little easier, and feels the bands around his chest loosen. Here, there are less people around, and Castiel can let himself relax and lean into Dean a little. He’s only been around Dean’s family for a few hours, and he’s already exhausted by the pressure of making a good impression, of having the Winchesters like him – because they are themselves lovely people.

Interestingly enough, he’s been using Dean as his source of comfort and support. It’s evident in their linked hands, the way his their shoulders bump with every one of their synchronised steps.

He should really put some distance between them as they trail behind John, Mary and Sam on their way along the sidewalk, but he just… can’t bring himself to. Not yet. The easy physical contact is too comfortable, too calming, and Castiel doesn’t want to sacrifice it just yet. Instead, he sneaks a sidelong glance at Dean.

There’s a small smile lingering at the corners of the man’s mouth, and his eyes are brightly, ruthlessly green in the early afternoon light. Castiel thinks he could spend hours counting every freckle he could find and still not count them all.

Dean catches him looking, and Castiel blushes, his gaze dropping.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes – just for something to do with his twitching fingers. Dean’s laugh is rich and warm, and he squeezes his hand gently. “It’s fine, Cas.”

It’s too easy to pretend to be in love with Dean Winchester.

Once they reach the car, a new problem arises. There are five of them – four of whom are males upwards of six foot. So with John driving, and Mary’s claim of “shotgun!” going undisputed, Sam, Dean and Castiel are left to figure out the backseat seating arrangements for themselves.

After a minute of heated bickering between Sam and Dean that Castiel is no way going to involved himself in, Dean eventually huffs and pouts, then stomps over to the small rental car. Castiel takes that to mean that the decision reached did not work in Dean’s favour – a theory that is confirmed when he peers into the car to find Dean sulkily buckling himself into the middle seat. He can’t help but snort in amusement, and Dean turns his head to glare at Cas, though there’s a playful hint in the green gaze that is not awarded to Sam when the other Winchester climbs in on Dean’s other side after putting his bags in the trunk, radiating smugness.

Sam’s comment of, “Dean, you’re on my part of the seat,” is quickly followed by a jab to the ribs from the elder brother, and a yelp of dismay from the younger. Castiel rolls his eyes fondly as he buckles himself in. _Children_.

Apparently, Mary echoes his thought. “Kids, please, keep it down back there, “ she teases, twisting back to grin at Dean, who doesn’t dare retaliate as he would to Sam. Instead, he narrows his eyes at her, then gives Sam another subtle jab in the ribs with his elbow.

The ride to the airport is mostly filled by casual chatter between the Winchesters. Castiel speaks when he’s asked a question specifically, but otherwise he’s happy to just sit back and observe the family dynamics and smile at the near-constant bickering that has been sparked by the backseat fiasco. It’s wonderful to watch Dean around people that he knows and likes, people he gets along with, instead of the person he is at work, or alone with Castiel. There are so many more facets to Dean Winchester than Castiel ever realised, and it’s entrancing to see each of them revealed to him, one by one.

It’s only when they pull up to the airport that Castiel realises he’s spent most of the drive just watching Dean – the way his moves, the way he talks, the way his smile flashes bright and brilliant and breath-stealing. This fake engagement is definitely getting to his head, and he frowns to himself as he climbs out of the car and retrieves his bag. It’s been so long since he’s spent such an extended period of time with someone that he’s just getting himself mixed up.

As a result, he tries to rein in his thoughts a little more as he follows the Winchester family into the airport, and they go through check-in and security. At least he ends up separated from the other in the TSA lines, and has a little more time to collect his thoughts for the apparent age it takes for him to pass through. The engagement is merely a business deal; the only reason he’s feeling like this is because he’s unaccustomed to spending so much time with a single person, and an attractive one, at that.

 _No_. He can’t think like that. He has to get his head on straight. _But it’s true_ , a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind pipes up. _Dean_ is  _attractive_. Castiel firmly shoves it back down.

Once he reaches the other side, he feels much more clear-headed and like himself. It takes him a moment to locate the Winchesters, and when his gaze falls on the small family waiting by the duty-free handbag store, his brow creases. John, Mary and Sam all look fine and relaxed. It’s Dean that is the problem.

The man is pacing across a small stretch of linoleum tile, over and over, up and down, as if the soles of his shoes could wear right through the floor if he tread over it enough. Dean’s expression is tight and anxious, his shoulders a firm line, his fingers twitching anxiously as if he’s itching for something to occupy his hands. Castiel only has a second to wonder as to the cause of the clear tension, and then he’s meeting that startlingly green gaze from across the cavernous space, and all the worry falls from Dean’s face.

As soon as Castiel takes a step towards the small knot of people, Dean matches it, crossing the space and weaving through the ever-moving web of people until they meet at the halfway point, and it seems as if the crowd is parting around them, flowing by on each side and leaving them in their own small bubble.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, concern threaded through his voice – had something bad happened while he was stuck in the security line? Cold fear seizes his heart at the first thought that his mind jumps to; Dean’s family knows that the engagement is a sham.

But when he looks over Dean’s shoulder at the Winchesters, all seems normal. Sam and John are talking, Sam’s head bowed to his father’s height as John makes a gesture in the air and both of them laugh, relaxed. Mary is the only one watching them; from this distance, Castiel can’t figure out her expression, can’t guess as to the thoughts inhabiting her head. So he turns his gaze back to Dean, who’s rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I, uh. I dunno. I guess I just got worried that you’d gotten caught up in security, that something had happened…” The blush that colours his cheeks is both adorable and endearing, and Castiel is powerless to stop the uptick of the corners of his mouth into a soft smile as Dean directs his embarrassed gaze at the ground.

Dean’s family is watching, and Castiel tells himself that that’s why he lifts a hand and bumps his knuckles gently under the man’s chin until he lifts his head to look at Castiel. Dean’s eyes are wide, and Castiel’s fingers itch and tingle with the desire to trace one of Dean’s perfect cheekbones with his thumb, but he refrains, instead letting his hand fall. “That’s very sweet of you, Dean,” he says softly, just for Dean’s ears. “We should be getting back to your family now. We have a flight to catch, after all.”

As soon as Castiel mentions flying, Dean’s eyes cloud slightly, and some of the tightness returns to his frame. There’s tension in his voice when he speaks, even though he tries to make the words sound casual and nonchalant. “Yeah, sure. Of course. The flight.”

It’s clear that Dean is most definitely not relaxed as they cross back to where the other Winchesters are waiting, and while he flashes Castiel a smile, it’s weak and wavering and carries none of its usual blinding brilliance. Castiel wants to help, to relax Dean in some way, but he’s not quite sure how to achieve that within the parameters of their pseudo-relationship. So he stays silent, just letting the back of his hand bump against Dean’s every so often with how close they’re walking. Hopefully Dean will be okay.

Dean is not okay.

When the brusque-voiced airline employee announces that the flight to Kansas City has been delayed due to a problem with the plane’s engines that the mechanics are working even now to fix, Castiel’s fiancé rises from his chair in a juddering tangle of limbs and resumes his pacing. His lips are pressed tight into a thin, white line, and his usually tan complexion seems pale, even in the golden light of the sun that streams through the windows. Fear and panic radiates from Dean, yet the Winchesters simply look concerned yet resigned. Sam tells Castiel that when Dean gets like this, there’s nothing anyone can do to calm him down. The weariness in his voice suggests that Sam has tried (and, apparently, failed) many times before.

And yet, Castiel can’t _not_ try.

When Dean spins on his heel at the end of the row of seats and starts back along the carpet, Castiel rises, stepping into Dean’s path and placing one hand gently on the man’s chest to halt him. “Dean,” he murmurs, softly, calmly – Dean’s face is a blank mask, the only clue to his underlying emotions in the glassy fear in his eyes and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyes dart back and forth, as if he wants to sidestep Castiel and continue wearing his path into the carpet, so Castiel grasps his elbow for good measure and guides him a few paces away, where they can pitch their voices low and avoid being heard by Dean’s family.

“Dean, please, take some deep breaths. The plane is fine, the problem is getting fixed, everything is going to be okay.”

Where Castiel had hoped that his gentle tone and calming words would soothe Dean’s anxiety, it only seems to make it worse. Dean grinds his teeth and twitches in Castiel’s hold as if he wants to put some distance between them, to ride out his fear silently as he is no doubt accustomed to.

“I’m fine, Cas, just leave me alone, alright? I’m not worried about the plane, or the engines, or the mechanics not doing a good enough job at fixing the problem and what if we crash and we die, or what if I lose mom or dad or Sammy or _you_?” Dean’s words are stumbling over themselves now, snowballing into a cascade that is only serving to work him into more of a dizzying panic, so Castiel utilises the first idea that comes to his mind.

He leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s.

Dean’s eyes widen, and his next words die on his tongue at the gentle press of Castiel’s lips. While he seems shocked, though, he doesn’t pull away, and Castiel figures that that’s at least a good sign. Dean’s lips are soft against his own, and when Castiel pulls away after a few seconds and wets his lips, he can taste a hint of sugar and cinnamon from the donut Dean bought himself on their way to the gate.

The kiss has stopped Dean in his tracks, and Castiel hopes he didn’t make a mistake when Dean continues to stare at him, wide-eyed, even after it’s over. He’s about to apologise for it when the shocked part of Dean’s lips gradually makes way for a smile, and the man reaches out for Castiel’s hip to pull him back into his space. “Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispers, and the gentle warmth in his green eyes is all that Castiel has to opportunity to register before Dean is closing the distance between them again and pressing a soft, reasonably chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips.

His lashes flutter as his eyes slide closed, and one hand comes up to curl over Dean’s shoulder as Castiel melts into the gentle kiss. It’s so wonderful to kiss someone – he can’t remember the last time he did – that he simply lets himself enjoy it. Every brush of lips, every gentle exhalation and bump of noses, every tentative shift of Dean’s hand on his hip. It’s all sublime, and just as Castiel comes to the conclusion that he could happily kiss Dean forever, a low-pitched wolf-whistle sears into their careful, gentle quiet, and Dean pulls back with a soft gasp.

Castiel laments the loss of the moment, and turns to look at Sam, who’s lowering his fingers from his mouth and grinning at them. John and Mary appear to have politely looked away to give the two some privacy – though Castiel can see Mary’s gaze sliding subtly sideways in their direction – and a few other people around them are outright staring. As such, it’s probably best for them to have stopped.

Now that they’re no longer cocooned in their own little world, Castiel worries that the unsolicited kiss will only increase Dean’s anxiety, but while Dean’s cheeks are flushed a dark pink, and his gaze won’t lift from the carpet, Castiel catches the barest hint of a smile curling his lips, and that’s enough for him.

They return to the seats where they had been waiting, and Dean accepts Sam’s teasing with good humour. Castiel is relieved to see that the physical manifestation of Dean’s fear does not reappear, which is a good sign considering how emotive Dean is. Hopefully, he’s managed to distract the man from the majority of his fears with the kiss.

Which, it turns out, ends up being only a bonus to what was a wonderful kiss. Castiel hopes that they’ll be able to repeat it at some point.

With Dean now significantly calmer, boarding the plane proves to be smooth and painless. Finding their seats: not so much. It’s only when Castiel finds himself ushered along the aisle and past first class that he thinks to check his boarding pass. Sure enough, it reads, in bold letters, _Coach_.

It’s definitely not the quality of travel that he’s used to, but he tries not to let his mild distaste show on his face as he follows Dean along the aisle that has almost halved in width now that they’ve reached the coach section. He doesn’t want any of the Winchesters (and especially not Dean) to think that he’s a snob. John, Sam and Mary continue on down the aisle to where their own seats are allocated further along the plane, while Dean stops, checks his boarding pass, and nods decisively.

Castiel’s boarding pass matches the details of a seat on the right hand side of the plane, bordered by one seat on its left and one on its right. The seat itself is barely wider than his torso, and he frowns at the tiny section of vinyl and budget fabric that has been allocated to him. Dean’s seat is on the outside, beside the aisle, so he takes Castiel’s bag from his hands and stows it in the overhead locker, evidently waiting for Castiel to sit before himself. Dean is ever the gentleman, and now Castiel can’t prolong it any longer.

He wrinkles his nose and shuffles across the tight space between the seats and those in front, then eases himself down into the narrow chair. This is how most people travel? With barely half an armrest, no space to stretch their legs, and people packed in on every side like sardines?

The window seat is already occupied by another man, so once he seats himself and Dean slides into the aisle seat beside him, Castiel finds himself boxed in, bracketed on both sides in a claustrophobic squeeze. He can’t help but lean a little closer to Dean as he buckles his seatbelt – the man to his left is balding, slightly overwight, and the acridic smell of his body odour permeates just far enough into Castiel’s space for it to be unpleasant. Dean makes for a much better travelling companion.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean says as he catches Castiel eyeing their surrounds with distaste and mild horror. He’s been trying to hide it, but of course, his emotions show on his face and Dean is well practiced in reading them. “I know this isn’t really what you’re used to.”

Castiel blows out a long breath and shakes his head, forcing a smile. “It’s fine, Dean. I will be the first to admit that the privileges that accompany the title of editor-in-chief have me a little spoiled, but I’ll be fine.”

Dean doesn’t look overly convinced, and Castiel can see a frown line bisecting his brows, but the man is given no time to push the point because the plane judders into movement, and Dean’s hands fly down to grip his armrests. No matter how much the kiss helped, Dean is still afraid of flying.

For the taxiing and the take-off, Castiel is able to distract Dean by taking his hand and smoothing his thumb gently over the man’s knuckles. He’s also quite proud of the way that he manages to draw Dean into a discussion about the order of the Star Wars movies (because it doesn’t make sense that they watches the fourth one first, instead of episodes one, two and three) to the extent that Dean almost forgets where they are until the seatbelt sign above their heads is turned off with a soft _ding_.

Dean pauses in his explanation, his free hand frozen in the air mid-gesture, and looks at Castiel. There’s no small amount of surprise in his green eyes, and his shocked expression soon morphs into a soft smile. “You’re too damn good at this, Cas,” he accuses, his eyes playfully narrowed, and Castiel can only shrug, his lips pulling up into a smile. “I don’t like seeing you so panicked,” he admits, and a gentle blush begins to creep across Dean’s cheeks. The man’s lips move, half-forming around words he can’t or won’t say, and in the end he shakes his head minutely.

“Want to watch another movie?” he says instead, and while Castiel is more than curious to find out what Dean may have said in that moment, it has undoubtedly passed, and now that Dean has moved on, it’s irretrievable. So Castiel just smiles, nods, and turns his attention to his entertainment screen. While all the others around him have flickered to life, his own remains resolutely black, and Castiel’s frown deepens as he pokes at the screen and any buttons that look even remotely related, to no avail.

Dean tries to coax it to life, as does the air hostess they eventually call over, but neither can do anything to remedy it. In the end, Castiel is left glaring at the black screen, lamenting the fact the he failed to pack any books on this trip. Beside him, Dean is still tabbing through the movies on offer with little consideration for Castiel’s frustrations, and he can’t help but fold his arms petulantly. Of course _his_ TV screen, out of all the ones in coach class, fails to work. It’s just rubbing salt into the wound of an already disagreeable situation.

He’s still grumbling quietly under his breath when Dean catches his attention with a gentle tap on the back of his hand; when Castiel glances over, Dean is holding up one earbud, the other already settled in Dean’s ear. The man has managed to plug his earbuds into the armrest with a small, two-pronged adaptor, and if Castiel puts one in his ear and leans close to Dean, he can watch whatever Dean is watching on the screen.

While he’d been huffing grouchily to himself, Dean had worked to fix the situation, and Castiel can’t help but think of all the times that that has been reflected in their work. Dean is always able to come up with a way to fix any problem, and for that, Castiel is immensely grateful. He accepts the earbud with a warm smile and leans close, his shoulder pressing against Dean’s as the man presses play, and they’re launched into a world of daring escapes, priceless artefacts, and a man with a whip that Dean seems to be very fond of.

Castiel decides that, as well as Star Wars, he also very much likes Indiana Jones. But then again, that may just be Dean’s infectious enthusiasm and excitement rubbing off on him.

They only manage to make it through one movie (and even then, only just, between debates, explanations and breaks for the unappetising food that is distributed among the passengers of coach class) before the screens are turned off. This time, Castiel has doesn’t have much work to do to distract Dean from his fear as they begin their descent – Dean just continues along the line of discussion of archaeology that had been their topic before the plane’s descent was announced, and only goes quiet as he sees the land come up to meet them through the windows of the plane. Castiel comforts him through it with their fingers interlaced – it comes much more naturally now, and he finds that he’s nowhere near as stilted as he used to be around Dean.

Still, despite Dean being less outwardly afraid of the flight, he’s still eager to get off the plane, and Castiel has to share his sentiment – though for an entirely different reason. The stranger beside him has been snoring for the better part of an hour, his head lolling towards Castiel, who needs to get off this plane _now_ if he’s to retain any semblance of sanity. He’s going to make sure they have first-class tickets on their flight back to New York.

Dean grabs their bags for them, and they’re both quick to escape, happy to find themselves out in wider, less constricting space of the airport terminal. Castiel has never been so happy to be able to move, after being so compressed for the three and a half hours it took them to reach Kansas, and he takes the time to stretch out his limbs as they wait for the rest of the Winchester family.

When Sam emerges, he seems to be doing the same thing – Castiel can only imagine how difficult it must be for someone of Sam’s height to fly in coach, with such little legroom. What doesn’t make sense, though, is the quizzical look that Sam is directing at something just behind Cas.

Castiel turns, and sees Dean leaning up against a wall, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and a soft half-smile on his face as he looks down across the building at nothing in particular. He doesn’t look stressed, or anxious, or even as pale as he had been after they’d landed in San Francisco. Instead, he just looks… relaxed. Happy.

When Castiel looks back at Sam, the youngest Winchester is watching him, a slight tilt to his head as if Castiel is a puzzle he can’t solve.

John and Mary follow shortly after Sam, and when John claps a hand to his son’s shoulder, Sam looks away, and the expression on his face disappears before Castiel can make anything of it. The moment is gone, and Castiel lets himself be swept along by Mary to where Dean is waiting, the soft smile still on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always loved (and make me write faster!), and you can find me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com) here!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Wowee, only a week since my last post! Really, truly, I have to thank everyone who commented such lovely awesome things on the last chapter because?? I ended up smiling like an idiot all day?? And it was super motivating and so I tried to get this chapter out as fast as I could and here it is! Thank you, as always, to the lovely [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) for beta-reading!
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean can’t keep the smile off his face as he steps outside into the fresh air. Even though technically it’s Missouri air, and he’s not yet stepped foot into the state where he grew up, it’s close enough that just knowing it is relaxing him an astounding amount. This is close to home, and home is somewhere that he doesn’t have to worry about anything. Home – Lawrence, because while he lives in New York City, it’s not _home_ – is somewhere he can relax and be himself. Somewhere where he doesn’t have to worry about work, or deadlines, or one Castiel Novak.

Except, this time, one Castiel Novak has managed to follow him, all the way from New York City.

This would bother him, and definitely threaten his chances of relaxation, if he and Cas hadn’t already spent some time together – now Dean has figured out that there’s much more to his scary boss than he’d originally thought, and he’s seen the softer, less sure side of Castiel. Which is why, even though he has to lie to his family and pretend he’s engaged, Cas is making it… surprisingly easy.

And Dean isn’t gonna touch _that_ with a ten foot pole.

Dean shakes that thought out of his head and half-turns to his right. Castiel is a few paces away, frowning down at his phone, and the rest of Dean’s family are still inside, waiting for their bags. While he wants to spend as much time with them as he can before he and Cas have to fly out again in a few days (and damn it, he is not getting on another plane for _months_ after this), it’s also nice to have a little bit of time alone with Cas to just _breathe_ and not have to pretend.

Except, from the way Castiel’s brows are knitted as he glares at his phone screen, he’s not as relaxed as Dean himself is feeling right now. Dean quirks an eyebrow and slowly crosses the short distance between them, wondering if Cas is going to look away from his phone.

He doesn’t, and now it’s Dean’s turn to frown as he peers over the man’s shoulder and watches Cas’s thumb scroll through the emails in his inbox. When he reaches for Castiel’s hand – the one holding the phone, he hasn’t become some kind of hand-holding addict (even though it _is_ nice) – to encourage him to put it down, Castiel starts, as if he hadn’t realised Dean was so close. He’s only just able to save his boss’s phone from imminent death via collision with the pavement, and grins as he hands it back.

“What’s so important that you’re ignoring your fiancé, there, Cas?”

Dean’s words are meant to be light and teasing, so when the crease between Castiel’s brows only becomes more pronounced, a small seed of worry sprouts in Dean’s stomach. “It’s Adler,” Castiel sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and he looks tired – it’s only now that Dean realises just how long this day feels, and suddenly he can’t wait to get home, eat a good meal and fall into bed. Either Castiel doesn’t notice Dean’s stifled yawn, or he politely ignores it. “He’s… ‘stirring shit,’ as I believe you would say, back at the office. He doesn’t like our sudden engagement, or the fact that I’ve temporarily left, and I believe he is using my absence to undermine me and my authority.”

While Dean is endlessly proud that Cas is picking up his language, and even using it correctly, the rest of it is concerning. Still, they’re meant to be relaxing, and Cas can’t do that, as well as maintain the engagement ruse, if he’s worried about work. Gently, Dean folds his hand over Cas’s and presses his thumb against the button that puts the screen to sleep. Castiel doesn’t protest, instead huffing out a long sigh, and when his great inhalation brings his back almost into contact with Dean’s chest, he realises just how close they’re standing.

Dean steps backwards, putting some space between them as Castiel turns to face him. The poor man looks so exhausted that Dean just wants to wrap him up in a hug, but he has to settle for verbal comfort instead. “Cas, everything’s gonna be fine with Zachariah. He’s slimy, and he doesn’t get results like you do, okay? There’s a reason that you’re the editor-in-chief, and not him. Luke and Michael know that, and they’re not gonna let Zachariah get into their heads that easily while you’re gone.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump, but after a few moments, he swallows and nods, seeming to accept Dean’s words. He knows that it’s hard for Cas to be away from the office – especially with Zachariah trying so hard to usurp his position – but he doesn’t want Cas to stress too much about things he can’t change If he really wants to make sure he keeps his job, he should be more focused on selling his engagement with Dean, so that he can actually stay in the country, let alone keep working at Sandover.

“Good,” Dean murmurs, hoping that Castiel will take his words to heart. This time, he can’t resist giving the man a quick, one armed hug. And of course, that’s exactly when his family shows up.

“Bobby’s on his way,” John says from behind him, and Dean nearly jumps a foot in the air. It’s only Castiel’s fingers closing around his wrist in a loose, gentle grip that keeps him from putting distance between them – he knows that they’re meant to be acting like a couple, but the scare that he’d gotten from his dad’s sudden appearance had triggered his fight or flight instinct. He’s just lucky that he had Cas and the man’s quick thinking to keep him grounded, and his tense expression relaxes into a soft smile.

Sam snorts from where he’s standing off to the side, and Dean is quick to shoot off a, “Bitch,” which is quickly responded to with, “Jerk,” from his (big) little brother.

Still, not even Sam’s teasing could pull him away from Cas right now, and he lets his hand slide up until his palm is pressed against Cas’s. His fiancé leans into his side, and Dean breathes out a happy sigh – though he’s deliberately not meeting his mom’s gaze, because he knows she’s giving him a sappy look right now.

Luckily, Bobby turns up not long after, pulling himself from the cab of his pickup truck with a groan of both throat and weary bones. His grizzled face is topped with the ever-present and battered ball cap, and he squints out from under it as his gaze first lands on Sam, then Dean.

“Good to see you idjits again,” he grumbles, and the scrutiny of his gaze intensifies until he has Dean pinned under it. “’Specially you, boy. You spend so much time over in that big city, I worry we’ll never see you again.” Dean cracks a grin – Bobby may act all gruff, but in reality, he’s a softie, and he cares for his extended family just as much as his real family.

Cas isn’t family, though, not yet, and so the stare he’s subjected to is far more magnified than the one that Dean had experienced. Bobby is eyeing Castiel, his gaze dropping to their entwined hands, but he doesn’t say anything just yet. Dean knows for a fact that Bobby can be a scary motherfucker sometimes, and leans his weight gently against Cas to reassure him – but the man doesn’t seem all that fazed. A lot of his work is spent with people trying to intimidate him into better contracts, publishing rights, anything under the sun, and Castiel has long since learned how to hold his ground. In the afternoon light, his blue eyes flash, steely and unafraid, his back tall, and Bobby blinks once, twice.

“And who might you be?”

Bobby’s eyes are narrowed – the man is inherently suspicious of any outsiders – but when Castiel promptly sticks his hand out for the old man to shake, he looks a little taken aback. It doesn’t look like Dean will have to mediate this introduction, so he simply watches on curiously.

“My name is Castiel Novak,” Cas says as Bobby reaches out and clasps his weathered palm with Castiel’s, his gaze holding a little more respect now after seeing the strength of Castiel’s conduction. “I’m Dean’s fiancé.”

The only reaction that statement receives is a slight widening of Bobby’s eyes before they narrow again, and his gaze slants to Dean and back. The silence stretches out for one second, two, and Dean can see his mom shifting in his periphery, but the rest of their little group is still. Bobby is basically family, and Dean’s breath is caught in his throat – he’s never mentioned to the old man that he’s bisexual, how is he going to react?

“’N you didn’t think to pick up the phone and give us a call?” Bobby grumbles, and the nervous energy dissolves into loud laughter from John and a collective sigh from himself, Sam and Mary. “That’s exactly what we said!” John exclaims, clapping his hand to Bobby’s shoulder, who gives a gruff grunt and continues to keep his accusatory glare fixed on Dean.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up, and he turns his wry gaze on Dean, who scowls playfully at his fiancé before turning back to Bobby. “Sorry,” he tells the old man, suitably cowed by the expression. He’s been on the receiving end of it countless times over the years, but it never fails to intimidate him into sobriety. “It kinda all happened pretty fast. We wanted to surprise you.”

He blows out a sigh and turns back to Cas, one eyebrow twitching upwards as Castiel’s amused smile widens ever so slightly. _Cheeky_. “Cas, this is Bobby. He’s not related by blood, but he’s basically family, him and Ellen and Jo – who I assume you’ll be meeting later?” The end of his statement rises into a question, directed at Bobby, who nods and then turns away. It seems that he’s done with the fiancé conversation, not one to fixate for too long on something, and he and John take it upon themselves to start loading everyone’s bags into the back of the pickup.

Castiel watches him go, head cocked as if he’s considering something, then turns back to face Dean. “I like him,” he declares, and Dean can barely suppress his snort, because _of course_ Cas likes Bobby. The two are basically peas in a pod – even if Bobby’s literary interests are more fixed on international and ancient cultures, and even if Castiel is far, _far_ hotter.

Dean has to fight back a full-body shudder at the thought of even comparing the two (namely, _Bobby_ ) and immediately tries to reroute his thoughts. “So, you doin’ okay?” he asks softly, ducking his head slightly and smiling at Cas – the rest of his family are piling their luggage into Bobby’s pickup, with everyone complaining about just how much stuff Sam has brought with him, and Dean just wants to steal a quiet moment with as before they get swept up in it all.

Any concern he felt about Castiel meeting his extended family is melted away by the warm smile Cas gives him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m fine, Dean. I was nervous to meet your family at first, but I’m getting used to it now. Plus, I’m used to situations like this, just not with the emotional component, and…” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Not with such heavy consequences if we fail.”

And that’s the splash of cold water to the face – if they fuck this up, Cas will have to leave the country. Dean doesn’t even care that he’ll fail to make editor without their success; Cas staying is the only thing that matters to him now.

On impulse, he tugs Cas a little closer and presses a quick kiss to the man’s temple. His skin is soft, his dark hair curling just slightly above his ear, and Dean can’t help but recall how _amazing_ it felt to kiss Cas back at the airport.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink, and he can feel the shy heat building beneath his skin. Castiel looks a little surprised, his lips slightly parted. “We’ll be fine, Cas,” Dean tells him, his voice a little softer than he’d intended it. “I promise.”

Castiel opens his mouth as if to reply, but they’re interrupted by a grinning Samsquatch  who slings his arm over Dean’s shoulder. “You guys coming? We’re heading home first, then going to Bobby and Ellen’s for dinner. And I’m starving, so let’s go!”

Dean scowls up at Sam, but Castiel just looks amused, so he lets it go and steps away from Cas, grabbing their bags before his fiancé ( _boss_ , he reminds himself with a frown) can protest. The bags get deposited into the back of the truck, Bobby honking to hurry Dean and Castiel along while John grins at them from the passenger seat.

“Sam,” the man calls out the open window, “you take the taxi with your mother and keep her company. We’ll see you at home.” With the addition of Cas, the pickup is a seat short, so Sam slumps off to where Mary is climbing into the taxi, parked behind the pickup. Dean loves his brother, but the kid is sharp as a tack, as he and Cas are going to need some time away from his scrutiny if they’re going to survive this.

Ever the gentleman, Dean opens the back door of the pickup for Cas and waits as he climbs up and in (and now there’s no-one left outside to see the way he checks out Castiel’s ass as the man climbs into the pickup, so he does it unashamedly) before following him in. The radio is tuned in to a station broadcasting the Royals game, and Dean tries to pick up the details of what’s happening as he buckles up his seatbelt. While he’s attended a couple of the Yankees games in New York with colleagues, his loyalty will always be with the Kansas City team, and he grins as he hears the commentators announce that they’re currently winning.

Castiel looks baffled by the chatter of commentary filling the car, his brows drawn into a confused frown and his head tilted. Dean resolves to take him to a game one of these days – he loves baseball, and he could probably be patient enough to explain all the rules to Cas.

Dean blinks, and his brows pinch down into a frown for a second. He’s making all these plans of things to do with Cas, as if they’re really in a relationship, as if after this they’re not just going to go back to how things always were between them, that stilted boss-employee relationship that is sepia toned to what he’s discovered of Cas now. Castiel doesn’t notice, his bright blue gaze fixed on the landscape passing by out the window, and as Dean watches him… something is seizing in his chest, and he doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t know what to do about it, so he does what he does best and forces it deep down, shoving it into a locked box never to be opened.

And yet it’s still there, soft and persistent in the back of his head.

Dean grits his teeth and tries to focus on the Royals game in the hope that it’ll go away. It doesn’t.

Dean’s childhood home looks mostly the same as it had the last time he’d visited – which must have been over a year ago now. There are a few new plants in the front yard (Mary’s touch) and the front steps are a pale shade of wood that indicates recent replacement and youth (John’s hand) and yet it’s still inescapably _home_ , and Dean feels his heart swell several sizes at the sight as Bobby pulls up along the front curb. Castiel is watching everything, wide-eyed, like an owl, and Dean wonders if he’s ever been privy to this kind of suburban lifestyle. He’s pretty sure that Castiel has only ever lived in New York, and while he’s travelled to other cities, they’ve been just that. Cities.

He has no idea how Castiel lived back in Russia – feels that they’re not yet close enough to merit that kind of private information. So he simply watches as Castiel absorbs it all. The neatly kept front lawn, the houses lined up neatly on either side of the street, with a middle-aged man mowing his lawn in front of one house and three kids tossing around a Frisbee and laughing happily in just across the road. It all seems so new and wondrous to the man, and here’s a spark in Dean’s chest at the thought that he gets to introduce Cas to all this, to a life of suburban relaxation instead of the hectic rush of the urban lifestyle.

John raps sharply on his window, and it snaps down out of his thoughts. “Quit moonin’ over your boy there and help us, will you?” he barks out as Dean opens the car door, though there’s a teasing glint in his eyes that has a gentle laugh of surprise bubbling from Dean’s chest. He sees John and Bobby disappear into the house with a bag or two each through Cas’s window, past Castiel, who turns to look at him as Dean slides down out of the pickup. Dean can’t help but grin at him, buoyed by the fact that he’s back at home, with his family, in the house where he grew up.

“You coming, babe? I’m pretty sure Sam brought a whole Macy’s with him,” Dean jokes, the endearment falling easily from his lips without him thinking about it. Castiel’s eyes widen, big and blue in the shadow of the truck, but before either of them can speak, Sam’s head pops accusingly around the back of the pickup and his irritated response seizes Dean’s attention.

“You realise I had to bring my whole dorm room back with me, right?” he gripes, glaring at Dean as he hauls a bag out of the back and drops it onto the cracked asphalt of the road. “I even had to leave some stuff behind. You could at least give me a hand, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean replies automatically, and when he looks back into the pickup, the door on the other side is slamming closed, and Castiel is gone. Fear claws at Dean, fear that he said something wrong there, that he made a mistake with Cas, but then there’s a tousled head poking out beside Sam’s from the back of the pickup, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “You heard the man, Dean,” Cas teases, and all the breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a long exhale. “Come help out.”

The look Sam gives Cas, as if he approves of Dean’s choice in fiancé more now than he did before, makes Dean smile, happy to see the two getting along. On the other hand, though, as he hears hushed murmurs coming from the end of the pickup, any collaboration between the two could end badly for him. When he pokes his head over the edge of the bed of the pickup, he catches Castiel and Sam with their heads bowed close together, Sam’s lips moving as he murmurs something to Cas, who utters a soft chuckle. Just as he’d suspected, the two are conspiring against him.

“Hey!” he calls indignantly, rapping his knuckles against the metal of the pickup bed and grinning as both heads snap up towards him, each expression bearing a suspicious mixture of guilt and amusement. “No collaborating against me! Sam, I won’t have you corrupting Cas.”

When Sam pokes his tongue out at Dean, the elder Winchester brother can’t round the truck fast enough to catch him, and Sam’s escape is punctuated by a cackling laugh as his long legs carry him speedily away and into the house. Dean turns an unimpressed look on Castiel, who appears to be trying (and failing) to smother a smile.

“So, what was that all about?” Dean asks as he pulls the last two bags out of the back of the pickup and pulls the cover back across the bed. Castiel just gives him an innocent look as he takes his suitcase from Dean’s hands, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Dean.”

Damn it. He’d anticipated a lot of different outcomes that may have occurred upon Castiel  meeting Sam, but he really should’ve anticipated his little brother using this as an opportunity to tease and embarrass him. It didn’t seem like Cas was going to out the topic of their short discussion, either. Dean fixed him with a glare, but Cas’s amused smile only widens a little more. The little shit. “I take you into my life, and this is how you repay me?” he sighs, but a little more emphasis into the exhalation than he otherwise would, for dramatic purposes.

Castiel tilts his head, regarding the question seriously.

“It would seem that way, yes.”

And goddamnit, his fake fiancé is so damn weird, but Dean likes him anyway. He can’t help but grin, shaking his head in amused exasperation. “Alright, Cas. I’ve just gotta hope that that won’t come back to bite me in the ass sometime.” He bumps his shoulder gently against Castiel’s, and they make their way up the carefully tended path to the front door, still hanging open after Sam’s speedy, gangly exit.

“Sam Winchester, if you’re fuckin’ corrupting my fiancé, I’m gonna kick your ass,” he calls into the house, and is answered both by Sam’s loud laughter, and Mary’s shout of, “Dean Henry Winchester! Language!”

Dean blushes – he’d forgotten that he’s in his mom’s house now, and that she doesn’t like swearing. At least she’d abolished the swear jar years ago, when Dean had headed off the college and Sam was less hot-headed without the presence of his older brother. That doesn’t mean that she won’t give him a verbal warning, though. Beside him, Cas chuckles, and Dean shoots him a playful glare. “Sorry, mom!” he calls, then turns to Cas, intent on shepherding him upstairs before Mary can find them – he doesn’t fancy the possibility of having his mom lecture him in front of his boss.

Castiel is still grinning in amusement as he climbs the stairs ahead of Dean, and follows the directions given to Dean’s old room, right at the end of the hallway. It’s always odd sleeping in his old room, which has barely changed since he left for college, and it’ll be even more strange having to share it with Cas.

He stops short.

He’s going to have to share a room, share a _bed_ , with Castiel. His family will think it strange if they’re sleeping in separate rooms, and a separate bed made up on the floor will be hard to explain if Mary decides to go into his room for a tidy up. So he’s going to have to share a bed with his boss.

While Dean’s brain has been wheeling erratically through this realisation, Castiel has reached the end door, and Dean watches as he pushes it open and steps inside. He sees Cas’s head turn, taking in the walls and decoration; when the man turns back towards Dean, he can barely contain the smirk that’s pulling at the corners of his lips. “Your brother wasn’t kidding about the car fetish.”

Dean gapes at Castiel. The one problem with his room having not changed in almost eight years is that it still carries the decoration favoured by eighteen-year-old Dean Winchester. As such, nearly every spare inch of wall space is covered in posters of classic cars, with a few classic rock posters thrown in for good measure. He’s not that obsessed any more – books have taken over as one of his major addictions, since he quit his job as a mechanic and moved to New York for his big break at Sandover – though there will always be a place in his heart for the beautiful ’67 Chevy Impala, stored safely in the Winchester’s garage.

Castiel’s half-hidden smirk has morphed into a full grin, and Dean shakes his head as he stalks the last few feet to the doorway of his room. “It’s not a fetish,” he grumbles, making a mental note to kick Sam’s ass when he next sees the shaggy-haired giant. “Eighteen-year-old Dean liked cars, okay?”

Cas makes a sound that Dean can only qualify as a snicker, and Dean shoulders past him (though not too roughly, it’s more of a playful nudge) to dump his bag on the end of the double bed. Castiel follows him, though his bag is set down more carefully at the foot of the bed before the man turns to look around at the room. When he glances at Dean over his shoulder, his blue eyes are alight with mirth.

“I’m sorry, Dean, but your brother had a point. It’s like a heterosexual boy’s wet dream in here,” Castiel points out. Dean can’t help but despair at the very real possibility that he’s going to get ganged up on by Sam and Cas and possibly even Jo over the course of this short holiday.

“Thanks, Cas,” he mutters, kicking off his boots and flopping back onto the bed. The rarely-used springs groan in protest, but the covers are soft and clean, and Dean should really thank his mom for dusting and cleaning and changing the sheets on his old bed.

Seemingly done with poking fun at Dean’s taste in room décor, Castiel has turned his attention to Dean’s small bookcase, which is nearly crammed full with paperbacks. Dean rolls over onto his stomach to watch, folding his hands and resting his chin on them as Castiel peruses Dean’s collection of mostly second-hand books. Seemingly impressed with what he finds, Cas makes a ‘hmm’ sound in the back of his throat, then glances back at Dean over his shoulder. “Not bad for an eighteen-year-old,” he comments, which, _duh_. Dean has good taste – Castiel has just never listened to him enough to recognise this, always dismissing Dean’s ideas in favour of his own.

Hopefully, after this, Castiel will be more likely to actually _listen_ to Dean the next time he suggests something, now that he knows Dean’s judgement can be trusted. It wasn’t like he took the rejections seriously, though; Castiel is very good at his job, and Dean can now recognise the aspects of Cas’s personality and the path of his life that have led to him trusting himself and his own opinion and work above anyone else’s.

And knowing just how reserved Castiel is about trusting the judgement of other people, Dean can’t help but smile as Cas pulls a well-worn book of poetry from Dean’s bookshelf and settle onto the scratched floorboards as he thumbs open the front cover with careful, reverent fingers.

Seeing the gentle way Castiel handles his books, Dean can’t help the fleeting curiosity as to what those hands would feel like on his body, running lightly over his skin. He flushes – sure, he’s seen Cas nearly naked, but the man’s his _boss_ , Dean shouldn’t be thinking about him like that – and turns his face to the side to hide it. Instead, he looks out the window to the tall, sturdy oak instead. Its leaves rustle in the gentle breeze, their quiet whisper muted by the pane of glass separating inside from outside, and Dean sighs.

When he looks back at Castiel, the man’s back is pressed up against the side of the bookcase, knees drawn up to his chest, and the book propped gently against his kneecaps with one hand. He looks serene and peaceful, perusing novels from Dean’s youth, and part of Dean doesn’t want to disturb him, but he also knows how uncomfortable it becomes to sit in one awkward position for a long period of time, engrossed in a book and only ruing it once the time comes to move and muscles have knotted, joints cracking in protest.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, soft and quiet, his voice the only sound in the room apart from Castiel’s steady breathing and the faint noise of the rest of his family moving about downstairs. Only a twitch of Castiel’s mouth indicates that the man heard him, and Dean rolls his eyes. He’s seen Cas like this before, when a particularly good manuscript finds its way to the man’s desk and he spends whole afternoons engrossed in it, the end of a pencil caught between his teeth as he reads and makes notations. Whenever he gets like that, Dean almost has to set off the fire alarms to pull him out of it. It seems as though Cas can find the same headspace by simply being relaxed and allowing himself to fall easily into the world of words. Dean tries a little harder.

“Cas.”

Castiel blinks, slowly, as though being pulled back from a great distance, and drags his gaze up away from the inked page until he’s looking at Dean. “Yes?” he rumbles, his voice deep and soft yet ragged, a low-pitched thunderclap. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat.

“You probably–“ Dean’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, gaze slanting away. “You probably shouldn’t sit on the floor for too long,” he points out, shifting aside on his bed to make room for Cas. This is probably a monumentally bad idea. _I’m only looking out for Cas_ , he tells himself. “You can always come up on the bed.”

He watches as Cas’s head tilts, and his thumb shifts, dragging along the thick sheaf of pages that have yet to be bared to his gaze. “Okay,” Castiel murmurs, keeping one finger tucked inside the book to mark his place as he stands, graceful and fluid. Before he can cross the few paces to Dean’s bed, however, Dean holds up a hand. “And, hey… would you mind grabbing me something to read? We may as well, I don’t think we have to leave for Bobby and Ellen’s for another hour.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth curls up into a gentle half-smile, and without speaking, he turns, the fingertips of his free hand trailing across the assortment of varying spines before he pulls one out. Dean’s old copy of George Orwell’s _1984_ is set down onto the mattress beside him as Castiel pulls off his shoes, then stretches out on the bed beside Dean. They’re not lying rigidly side by side, but instead sprawled out in a way that seems much more casual than Dean currently feels.

He settles into a more comfortable position on his stomach and opens the book, but his gaze doesn’t fall to the text immediately. Instead, it slants across to where Castiel has stretched himself out on his back, arms extended and holding the book in the air above his face. It’s amazing how much his previously uptight boss is relaxing around him now – it’s evident in his choice of words, the looseness to his muscles, the way he seems to naturally gravitate towards Dean whenever they’re close to each other.

And that _kiss_.

Dean had been freaking the fuck out at the time, so it’s all a bit of a blur, but he remembers how fantastic Castiel’s lips had felt against his own. Those same lips are moving now, mouthing the words to the poetry he is no doubt reading as though he were saying it aloud, and suddenly Dean wishes he would. No doubt the words would have such emotional power when carried on the deep, resonating timbre of Castiel’s voice.

He swallows and forces himself to turn back to his book, but the black lines of text swim and blur in his vision as his mind wanders – always back to the dark-haired man at his side.

What the hell is he doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos fuel my writing fire, or you can find me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)! I'd love to chat and even to take prompts. Talk to me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I try to get these updates out to you guys quickly, but I have not had a great week, and it's been a huge struggle to find motivation to write. Thank you to everyone who left me lovely comments or kudos, they really helped me to motivate myself, and that's why I'm getting this out to you a day before my ultimate two-week cutoff. 
> 
> On a happier note: with the last update, this fic reached 1000 hits and 100 subscribers. So I would just like to take a moment to thank everyone who has subscribed, read, left a comment or kudos, anything. As someone who was just starting out when I began this fic, your support really means a lot to me. To celebrate, I'd love to write something for one of my readers - if you'd like something, feel free to ask in the comments or to leave me a message on Tumblr.
> 
> Thank you to my beta and my rock, [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope).
> 
> Enjoy.

Castiel isn’t sure how long they spend reading. He loses himself in the passage of time, in the flow of words and imagery and emotions, in the gentle rhythm of Dean’s breathing beside him and the man’s soft, barely audible hitches of breath during what he assumes must be a particularly enthralling scene.

This is his perfect afternoon. Stretched out somewhere comfortable with a good book and a handsome man beside him. For someone who doesn’t do well with conversation and the meaning behind words in the real world, Castiel has always found books to be remarkably intricate, offering so many different meanings cloaked in their neat print. There is no wrong way to interpret a text – unlike his experiences with the real world. Books are much simpler. So this moment, this quiet moment with two people reading different texts but sharing companionship, a love of good literature… in his mind, it’s perfect.

And all too soon, it’s interrupted by footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Dean! Cas!” comes Sam’s voice, and the footsteps stop just outside the door. Castiel feels Dean shift on the bed, sees him set his novel down onto the bed with his hand still loosely resting between the pages he was on to mark his place. Castiel doesn’t want to put his book down, not yet – he’s too lost in the beautiful, straightforward emotions of the poetry he’s reading.

“I’m coming in, you two better not be naked in there!”

And that’s enough to shake Castiel out of his little fantasy world, his cheeks burning as he closes his book and sets it aside. Assuming that they might be – well. It’s not unreasonable, considering that they’re engaged, but the implication is more than enough to make Castiel uncomfortable. He can see from the corner of his eye that Dean’s cheeks are just as pink as his own must be, and that his blush has even spread to the tips of his ears. It’s, quite frankly, adorable.

Dean catches Castiel looking and turns his head a little – Cas catches the small, cheeky smirk playing about his lips and only has a moment to wonder as to its origin when he hears the clunk of the doorknob turning and the door slowly swinging open with a metallic whine, as if pushed by a wary hand.

Sam’s shaggy head appears from around the edge of the door, and his features melt into relief when he sees that they’re both fully dressed, just lying on the bed and reading books. “You’re a pair of dorks,” he teases, to which Dean snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Says you, Sasquatch. I remember when you used to ask for extra homework for fun, don’t try and pull that shit on me.”

Now it’s Sam’s turn to flush, and he flips Dean off around the door. “Shut up, jerk,” he says, to which Dean immediately replies with the witty rejoinder of, “bitch,” which Castiel is beginning to understand is some kind of _thing_ between them.

People are strange. That’s why he likes to work with books. Though he also likes to work with Dean, he’s starting to realise.

“Anyway,” Sam says pointedly, brushing his floppy bangs out of one eye, “we’re heading to Bobby and Ellen’s for dinner. Me and Mom and Dad are going in the truck, dad says you and Cas can take the Impala.”

While Dean figures out logistics with Sam (Castiel is pretty sure there’s some further bickering in there too, but for the most part he tunes them out), Castiel sits upright and sets the book of poems aside. The sky outside is caught in the in-between of dusk, where the shadows are burnt-orange-black and the sky is a gradual ombre from navy to russet, almost gold where the sun dips beneath the horizon. The shadows in the room are longer – it’s only now that he realises he’s been squinting to read the neatly printed text of his book, and he wonders just how much time he lost to this quiet world with Dean. When he glances over, finally pulling his gaze from the ethereal, hushed view of the suburban landscape offered by the window, he finds Dean watching him with a soft half-smile, his green eyes bright in the slowly dimming light.

“Welcome back,” his fiancé teases, his voice a low rumble, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the calm and peace that Castiel feels has settled deep in his soul. He’s never even gotten close to achieving this in New York, but here in the solitude of the suburbs, with Dean by his side and a book in his hand… it has come surprisingly easily.

“Sorry,” Cas replies, his voice just as soft as he leans back on his hands and rolls his neck, first to one side, then the other. It has become stiff from what he assumes was over an hour of reading. “I was wrapped up in my thoughts.”

Dean snorts, but his gaze remains fond, and he reaches out to run one hand down Castiel’s denim-clad thigh before pulling it back into his own lap. The touch leaves tingles in its wake. “Trust me, I could tell. ‘S okay. We have to head off for dinner soon, though, or Aunt Ellen is gonna crucify me.” The corner of Dean’s mouth pulls up into a lopsided grin that is far too endearing.

Castiel has kissed him before. He could do it again, right now; just lean forward and press his lips against Dean’s, here in the blue-orange twilight where nothing feels quite real and everything is silent.

And then Dean yawns, his jaws stretching wide, and the spell is broken. Castiel comes back to reality with an almost dizzying sharpness. They’re alone right now, Sam long gone – there’s no need to act like the couple that they’re not. He tries not to frown as Dean stands, and purposefully keeps his eyes on the window even when he sees the hem of Dean’s shirt ride up with a particularly languid stretch.

“Comin’, Cas?” Dean asks, and Castiel feels that he needs to try and shake his head to clear it, but instead settles for a small nod and an, “Of course, Dean.” He tries to move past the almost-not-quite that is eating away at his subconscious, and instead focuses on pulling on his shoes, lacing them, and following Dean down the stairs and out the front door.

The setting sun has turned Mary Winchester’s peonies a fierce magenta, and Castiel pushes his hands deep into his pockets as he admires the neatly planted flowers that line the front path. Were he not living in a high-rise apartment with no allowance in the lease for a cat, let alone room for a garden, his own dreams have always been pipelined, but one day he knows he would like the have a garden of his own. He smiles sadly at the thought – the idle musings of a man married to his work and unlikely to leave the big city any time soon.

Cas’s thoughts are interrupted by the screech and rumble of metal, and he turns to find Dean pulling the garage door open. The man is grinning, his expression wide and bright, and it makes Castiel’s breath catch.

“Stand back, Cas, don’t wanna hit you,” Dean calls, and Castiel rolls his eyes. From where he’s standing on the path, he’s in no danger of being hit by the car Dean is climbing into – unless Mary’s son has a personal vendetta against her peonies and is looking to see them crushed beneath the wheels of his car.

A low growl vibrates through the air, and moments later there is a sleek black car reversing out of the garage. Dean is twisted in his seat with his arm braced against the top of the front bench seat as he navigates this behemoth backwards out of the Winchester garage. The car rolls to a careful stop just shy of the rear bumper poking out over the street, and Dean climbs out, his grin (if possible) even wider than the one he had worn previously. The man folds his arms on the roof of the sleek muscle car (Castiel _thinks_ that’s what it is, he’s not into cars like Dean is) and tilts his head to Castiel in an invitation to come closer.

Castiel crosses the lawn until his shoes meet the concrete of the driveway. This close, he can see that the car is positively gleaming, with not a spot or speck on her. “It’s very beautiful, Dean,” he says, but something about that must have been wrong, because Dean is making a mock-affronted sound and shaking his head at Cas across the roof of the car.

“’It’? Cas, she’s not an it, she’s a _lady_ , and you should treat her as such.” He runs a hand smoothly over the polished black roof, then winks at Castiel. “Though, you’re right, she is beautiful. This is the Impala, my baby. Broke my heart when I had to leave her behind for New York.”

Castiel is beginning to think Sam may have been onto something with the car fetish thing. His lips twist into an amused smile. Dean notices it, mock scowling at him and flapping a dismissive hand in Cas’s direction. “Ah, you heathen. You don’t get it.”

And he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a joy to climb into the car beside Dean and see his pure happiness at the sound of the Impala’s engine and the feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands.

It feels like barely any time at all before the Impala comes to a stop, pulled up to the curb in front of another suburban house. From the looks of the neighbourhood, this one is slightly further from the centre of Lawrence – there aren’t as many houses around here as there were bordering the Winchester family residence.

The lights are on inside, and Dean is already moving to open the driver’s door, obviously eager to see the rest of his extended family. For the first time since meeting Mary and John, Castiel feels nerves coiling in his gut.

“Dean,” he says, his voice tense and his heart rising up into his throat with nerves at the prospect of meeting even _more_ of Dean’s family and trying to convince them that not only does he know Dean well, he loves him, and is engaged to him.

Dean pauses where he’s half out of the car and turns back to Castiel. In the dim light of the streetlights, the man’s expression is lined with worry – and rightly so. Castiel hasn’t moved from his seat, is even still buckled in, and when he smooths his hands across the denim covering his thighs, they shake just a little.

He’s really not good with people. Especially not this many strangers, especially when he has to pretend to be something else, some _one_ else, in front of them.

“What if I make a mistake, Dean?” Castiel asks after several long seconds of stillness, of silence. His gaze drops to his lap, and his fingers curl into fists. He wishes they would stop shaking. “What if I say something wrong, and…”

 _What if they don’t like me?_ Somehow, that has become an even bigger fear than the prospect of slipping up and ending up on a plane back to Russia.

Cas’s eyes widen as he tries to grapple with the realisation and what it means, but Dean is already speaking, settling back into his seat with a gentle smile on his face. “Cas, it’s gonna be fine. You’ve already met three of them, and I’ll make sure Jo and Ellen go easy on you. Just don’t overthink it, okay?”

Dean’s voice is steady and reassuring, and Castiel feels the heavy knot in the centre of his chest ease, loosen. He’ll be okay. He has Dean with him, after all. Gathering his courage, he gives the man a small, brave smile, and Dean’s face lights up in return. “Come on, then,” the man teases, turning to slide out of the car. This time, Castiel follows. The last of the sun is disappearing below the horizon as he rounds the Impala to where Dean is standing, and it turns the man’s green eyes a brilliant emerald.

The corners of them crinkle when Cas steps up beside Dean, and a strong, warm hand catches Castiel’s, lifting it up to Dean’s lips. There’s a gentle kiss brushed, featherlight, over Cas’s knuckles, and he feels his cheeks heat in the slowly cooling evening air.

“Ready?” Dean asks, and Castiel takes a deep breath, filling his ribcage until he can take no more and then exhaling it all in one slow exhalation.

“Ready.”

Even if he isn’t, it’s too late to back out, because Dean is pulling him up to the front door and knocking on the well-worn wood. Castiel only has time to shuffle his feet nervously and smooth his free hand across the hem of his shirt before the door swings open.

Warm light spills out around the figure of a woman. Her mousy brown hair is pulled up into a messy bun, her apron is smudged here and there with flour, and Castiel finds himself pinned on the receiving end of a sharp, calculating brown-eyed gaze. It’s almost as if she’s sizing him up –noting especially the way Dean’s hand is still clasped around Cas’s own – and he tries to straighten his spine beneath the gaze.

She must like whatever she sees, because her expression relaxes into a smile, and she steps forward to pull Castiel into a floury hug. “You must be the fiancé,” she deduces, squeezing him once, firmly, before letting go. “Castiel, was it?”

Cas nods, still a little stunned, and trying to subtly brush a streak of flour off what is (or _was_ ) a moderately expensive shirt.

“Well, I’m Ellen. Bobby’s wife. Lovely to meet you,” she drawls, her expression warm. Beside him, Dean clears his throat pointedly. “What am I, chopped liver?” he grumbles, and Ellen promptly reaches out to smack him on the shoulder. “I’m gettin’ to you. The fiancé’s the important one, especially considerin’ we didn’t know anything about him.”

Ellen’s tone is sharp and chastising, and Dean’s gaze drops like that of a scolded child, but she just chuckles and pulls him in for a squeezing hug, a little firmer than the one she gave Castiel. Dean hugs her back with his free arm, and Castiel can see his shoulders slope as the man relaxes. “It’s good to see you, Dean,” Ellen tells Dean, her voice soft. Dean’s reply is unintelligible, but he looks happy when Ellen finally lets him go, and doesn’t seem to mind that he’s now lightly dusted with flour in some places.

“Dean?”

The voice is young, and female, and the short blonde woman who steps into the hallway behind Ellen is not at all what Castiel had been picturing when Dean had mentioned a ‘Jo’. Dean’s face splits into a grin, while Castiel tries not gape as he attempts to equate this slim girl with the admittedly male character that he had created in his head. He still can’t quite manage it when Ellen steps out of the way and Jo rushes Dean for a hug. Cas’s fiancé lets go of his hand in favour of wrapping his arms around the blonde woman and swinging her in a small circle.

When Dean puts her back down, Jo is flushed and laughing, and Castiel feels something akin to jealousy spike in his stomach – which is absurd. Dean isn’t his.

That doesn’t change the way that his heart stutters in his chest when Dean retakes his hand, and it distracts Cas for a handful of seconds as he gazes up at the man.

Jo clears her throat. “So. Cas-tee-el, huh? Dean’s fiancé?”

Castiel is still somewhat reeling, his brain not quite up to its usual level of functionality, and his reply is far from eloquent.

“I didn’t realise you were a girl,” he blurts out.

Jo very slowly raises an eyebrow, and Dean looks as if he doesn’t know whether to be scared or amused, his expression caught in an odd in-between. Castiel feels rooted to the spot, mortified that he said something so embarrassing to one of Dean’s closest family friends, but after a few seconds, Jo laughs. “Got yourself a real clever one here, Dean,” she drawls sarcastically, though her eyes sparkle, light and teasing. “You didn’t tell him I’m a chick?”

Both Castiel and Dean simultaneously go bright pink, and Dean shuffles his feet, embarrassed. “Um… no? I forget that people don’t know you’re a girl, man,” he protests – though (Castiel is somewhat amused to note) he looks quite intimidated by the short, slender woman.

In a move almost identical to her mother’s, Jo punches Dean in the shoulder. It can’t have been that hard, or with that much malicious intent behind it, but Dean still pouts and rubs his shoulder when she steps back. Whether it’s for comedic effect or because these women can actually pack a punch, Cas isn’t sure. Honestly, he’s leaning towards the latter.

Jo pivots on her heel and disappears from the entryway in a series of quick, bouncy strides. When Castiel turns to Dean, the man gives him a crooked, amused grin, still rubbing his shoulder a little. “See?” Dean says. “They’re not that scary.”

Castiel can’t help but snort at the blatant lie, but he supposes that it’s half-true – they’d been nice enough to him.

“Though, y’know,” Dean adds conversationally, his tone too light to be truly casual. There’s a cheeky glint in his eyes. “They’re both damn good with a hunting rifle, and Jo has her own knife collection. So I’d be careful, those two are a force to be reckoned with.”

Dean couldn’t have thought to mention this new and mildly terrifying information _before_ he stepped foot in this house? Castiel’s face must reflect his shock and growing sense of fear, because Dean tips his head back and laughs, then hooks his fingers in one of Cas’s belt loops and pulls him close. “Man, you should see your face. Relax, Cas, they’re good people. Don’t get on their bad side and you’ll be fine.”

Not get on their bad side? He’s dragged one of their closest family friends into a fake engagement just to stay in the country – if they discover that, Cas gets the feeling that that would definitely put him on their bad side.

It would almost be funny, if it weren’t happening to him.

Castiel glares up at Dean, not impressed by the man’s teasing. In return, Dean leans into the minimal distance between them and presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. When he pulls back, the corners of his lips are still quirked up into a gentle smile. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs, gentle and sincere, and Cas releases the breath he had been holding.

Right at that moment, Ellen calls them, her voice carrying through the house easily from some location further in than just the entryway. “Dean, Cas! Move your asses and quit canoodlin’, or there won’t be any food left!”

Dean chuckles quietly, his breath barely ruffling Cas’s already unruly hair, and Castiel wishes that they had just a few more moments alone together so that he could centre himself. But instead, Dean is taking his hand and pulling him further into the house, the man following his nose to the promise of food like a bloodhound chasing a scent.

The rest of the Winchesters and the Singer-Harvelles are already in the small dining room, clustered around a rustic wooden table piled high with an assortment of dishes, the smell of which makes Castiel’s stomach rumble in anticipation. On the back wall hangs a wide banner, across which the words ‘Congratulations Sam’ are neatly painted in black. A colourful assortment of stars and smileys and exclamation points surround the words – likely born of a different hand than the one who neatly and meticulously painted the block letters. Cas’s money is on Mary.

There are two seats still empty on the right side of the table, and Castiel settles himself into one of the mismatched wooden chairs beside Mary, who gives him a warm smile that instantly makes him feel less worried about being under the roof of people with an apparent passion for weaponry. Dean takes the seat beside him, bumping their shoulders together affectionately. Across the table, Sam pretends to gag, and Jo bursts into laughter beside him.

“Seriously, you should see them. It’s sickening,” Sam jokes. “I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself – I’m still not sure that Dean hasn’t been swapped out for a clone of himself who’s more in touch with his emotions.”

Jo laughs harder, and even Ellen’s lips are pulling up into a smile. Dean, in contrast, is scowling across the table at Sam, and lifts a hand to flip him off. Mary has no issues with leaning around Castiel to smack Dean across the back of the head – and how on earth did Castiel end up here, with this family?

Amazingly enough, he can’t help but laugh at Dean’s sulking pout as his fiancé rubs the back of his head. On a sudden wave of daring, he leans close and presses a small, shy kiss to Dean’s cheek – in front of his whole family, no less. Dean’s cheek goes pink beneath Cas’s lips, and when he pulls back, the man is smiling bashfully, looking down at the table through his lashes.

“You’re right, they _are_ gross,” Jo declares, as Bobby and John finally appear and take their seats at either end of the table. They look a little bemused by the laughter that erupts, but at this point, know better than to question it.

Castiel knows that now his cheeks are wearing the same faint pink as Dean’s, but he doesn’t regret the small kiss in the slightest. His lips curl into a bemused smile as Sam and Jo’s discussion of how gross they are quickly devolves into bickering, with Dean occasionally interjecting – from the small smirk Cas can see him trying to hide, he’s obviously trying to escalate the situation on purpose.

This continues until Ellen, bearing the last of the dishes from the kitchen, decides that she’s had enough. “Would you two quit it?” she says as she tries to find room on the already overcrowded table for one last dish of potatoes. Jo tugs her plate back slightly to make room, even as she scowls down at it. Sam, who seems to have had the higher ground when Ellen called an end to their squabbling, is grinning, up until Jo elbows him sneakily in the side as a non-verbal retaliation.

Ellen takes her seat at the table, and that seems to be the unspoken cue, because as soon as she does, there are hands reaching for utensils, dishes being passed around the table, and generous helpings of food being scooped out onto plates. It’s chaos, and Castiel can only sit back and stare, his eyes wide. He’s never attended a dinner so disorderly as this, and it’s somewhat overwhelming. Cas can only give Dean pleading and slightly terrified looks, until the man turns his head and notices that Castiel’s plate is still empty. He tips his head back and laughs.

“Sorry, Cas,” he says, pitching his voice so that it can be heard over the clinking sounds of metal on ceramics and the various discussions that have sprung up across the table. “Dinnertime with us can get a bit crazy, I forgot you wouldn’t be used to it. Here, tell me what you want, and I’ll serve you up some.”

Castiel has a wonderful fiancé.

Soon enough, his plate is piled high with all the things he asked for, and a few that he didn’t but that Dean insisted on, because “it’s the best thing you’ll ever eat, Cas, trust me,” and he can’t possibly say no to Dean, especially not when he’s already in the process of piling the food in question onto Cas’s plate. Not that Castiel minds, though; he’s willing to try anything. Honestly, he’s just happy that he didn’t have to risk losing an arm by trying to serve himself in the whirling chaos of dishes.

Once everyone has enough food on their plates (‘enough’ being a relative term; Sam’s plate is beginning to resemble an actual mountain, and the food is nearly spilling off the sides as he digs into it happily) the small group all clustered around the homely table turn to conversation. At first, the various topics are mostly related to Sam. After all, this dinner was organised to celebrate his graduation from Stanford, and he answers questions about college life and his plans for law school between mouthfuls of food.

It’s lovely and domestic, and while Castiel doesn’t have very much to contribute to the conversation, he’s content to simply sit back and enjoy the good company and good food. This is all new to him, but… he likes it. He really does. He could see himself fitting in here, even though he still feels a little awkward around Dean’s family. Someone makes a joke that Castiel misses, and the table bursts into laughter around him. He can’t help but smile at their exuberance and the easy nature of the conversation as it flows between those gathered around the table.

However, once the huge amount of food on the table has been severely diminished, and just about everyone is leaning back in their chairs nursing full stomachs (apart from Sam “are you gonna eat that” Winchester), the conversation takes a different turn.

“So, Cas, tell us about yourself. We’re curious about Dean’s mystery man, after all.”

Ellen’s words are followed by silence, as the table grows quiet and, for the first time in nearly an hour, all eyes turn to him. Castiel’s eyes widen slightly, and bites his lip, wondering where to start. What does he say? What’s interesting about him?

The silence stretches out just a few moments too long, and Dean gives him a soft nudge with his elbow. When Cas glances up at his fiancé, Dean smiles at him – small, and reassuring. Castiel takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“I, uh. My name is Castiel Novak, I’m twenty nine, and I’m the editor in chief of Sandover Publishing. I originally came from Moscow, but I…” His gaze falls to the table, tracing a deep scratch in the surface of the wood with his fingertip. “I moved. I finished my studies at Yale, then moved to New York not long after and started working at Sandover. I’ve been there ever since.”

It’s more of a career summary than anything else, but there’s nothing overly special or interesting about him. He’s not sure what else they’d want to know about him.

Luckily, though, Sam seems to have caught onto one particular part of his brief explanation and taken interest. “So you speak Russian? Say something in Russian for us!”

As if someone’s flipped a switch, Castiel’s mind goes blank. He can’t call to mind a single word of Russian, and even if he could, he would have no idea what to say. But, he realises… it doesn’t matter what he says. No one at this table is going to understand him, anyway. The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up in a smile, and he slants a sideways glance at Dean, who is looking at him expectantly.

“У Дина отличная задница,” Castiel declares, barely able to hide his grin.

At the end of the table, Bobby chokes on his water.

Castiel’s face immediately flushes crimson. Perhaps he had been wrong in his assumption that no one would understand Russian. Bobby’s eyes are wide, and the man’s bushy eyebrows have disappeared up under the brim of his trucker cap; Castiel wishes that the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

“Мне очень жаль,” Cas says, completely mortified by what he’s just said in front of Dean’s family. The rest of them look confused, Dean the most so as he looks between Cas and Bobby, who, much to Castiel’s surprise, is now… laughing. It’s just a chuckle, the man’s eyes crinkled and his mouth slightly hidden by his facial hair, but it’s a laugh nonetheless, and it puts Castiel a little more at ease. Maybe he didn’t make a complete mistake, after all.

“Мне не нужно было это знать, Cas,” Bobby tells him, but he’s still smiling – or, at least, his eyes are – so Castiel doesn’t think he’s too upset.

“Я не знал, что сказать,” he tries to explain, and if anything, it makes Bobby laugh harder. By now, Cas can feel Dean’s gaze boring into the side of his face, along with everyone else at the table. He’s really messed up this first introduction. It could be worse, though. He could have really embarrassed himself, if more people in Dean’s little extended family spoke Russian.

“Ты прощен,” Bobby replies with a wave of his hand, still chuckling to himself.

Castiel relaxes, ever so slightly – though the bright pink of his cheeks doesn’t fade. Beside him, Dean pokes at his shoulder, aware that he’s missing out on something and displeased at being left out of the loop. “Cas, what did you say?” he asks, his tone remarkably petulant for a grown man.

A quick glance around shows him that the rest of the table is looking at him expectantly, save for Bobby. There’s no way he’s telling them. “It’s not important,” he mumbles. Dean’s pout grows, but Castiel isn’t going to embarrass himself even further by admitting to Dean that he thinks he has a good ass.

Dean is still his employee, after all. They’re not _actually_ engaged – though it’s been all too easy for Castiel to forget that, it seems.

To Dean’s family, though, it’s all too real.

“So,” Mary pipes up from Castiel’s other side. “Do we get to see the ring?” While this serves to be a good distraction for Dean, whose gaze immediately drops to his left hand, Castiel’s stomach begins to twist itself up in knots. He gave his grandfather’s ring to Dean, to someone he isn’t even in a relationship with, and now he’s going to have to explain its significance not only to Dean, but to the rest of his family.

Dean is sliding the ring off his finger, and Castiel can only watch as he holds it up to the light and peers at the inscription inside. “You never did tell me what this means, Cas,” Dean points out, smoothing the pad of his index finger across the weathered outside of the ring.

Castiel swallows. “It means ‘forever’,” he tells Dean, his voice soft and a little rough where it scrapes out of his throat. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

There’s a chorus of “aww” from around the table – though Sam and Jo’s voices carry a hint of sarcasm – but Dean is just staring at Castiel, his eyes wide, fingers frozen where they were playing idly with the ring. His mouth opens and closes, as if he wants to say something, but in the end, he looks away. Cas sees him hesitate for a second before he slides the ring back onto his finger. There’s a silence between them, but it must go unnoticed by the rest of the table, because Mary is smiling and telling Castiel just how _sweet_ that is and asking when the wedding is going to be.

Dean fields her many questions – he’s better at thinking on his feet and coming up with answers that sound believable. Castiel simply watches Dean, resisting the urge to lean into the man when his fiancé – employee – rests an arm across the back of Castiel’s chair.

It’s amazing how well Dean is holding the situation together, when Castiel feels like it’s unravelling all around him. Dean is the only one keeping them afloat.

“Castiel,” comes a voice, and Cas blinks, struggling to pull his focus back to the real world. It’s difficult, and feels as though he’s dragging his heavy mind through water. Dean and Mary are watching him, Dean with no small amount of concern in his eyes. The rest of the table are engaged in various different conversations: Ellen and Sam are talking about Sam’s application to law school, while John, Jo and Bobby are discussing plans for a hunting trip in the next month. No one else seems to be paying too much attention to their conversation. Castiel drags his gaze back to Mary, who’s still watching him.

“Zoned out, did you?” she asks, and he nods, his jaw flexing as he suppresses a sudden yawn. It’s been a long day, and he doesn’t want to talk about the fake wedding right now, but he has to pretend, so he forces a smile. Mary’s expression grows fond. “I was just asking if you think your family will be coming over from Russia for the wedding. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to miss their son’s marriage.”

Castiel freezes, his mind stuttering to a halt, and he simply stares into Mary’s grey-blue eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure that he could actually speak, what with the way that panic is squeezing at his throat.

“N-no,” he finally manages to choke out, and Mary’s delicate brows draw into a frown. “But why not?” she asks, and Castiel wishes she’d just stop asking questions, stop talking, but she doesn’t. “Are you telling them, at least? They must be so proud of you, even all the way from Moscow.”

His own family is nothing like Dean’s, and he doesn’t even know how to put that into words.

Cas can’t move, can’t breathe, can only watch as the expression on her face slowly falls, and steely claws squeeze at his chest, compressing his lungs, compacting his heart.

Dean says something, concern in his voice – though Cas has no idea what the words were, doesn’t care – and reaches for him. Castiel almost falls backwards out of his chair in his haste to get away. The chair legs screech along the hardwood floor, and the conversations halt. There are too many eyes on Castiel; he feels like they see right through him, to the soul composed of lies and insecurities, to a young man abandoned by his family at twenty-one years of age and thrust out into the world.

He can’t do this.

No one says a word as Castiel spins on his heel and escapes the dining room as fast as his feet will carry him. The front door slams behind him as he spills out into the night air, and cool tears track their way down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> У Дина отличная задница = Dean has a great ass.  
> Мне очень жаль = I'm so sorry.  
> Мне не нужно было это знать = I didn't need to know that, Cas.  
> Я не знал, что сказать = I didn't know what to say.  
> Ты прощен = You're forgiven.
> 
> Some of this I looked up on websites, most of it I pulled straight outta google translate. If you speak Russian, absolutely feel free to tell me how bad I fucked up and help me out.
> 
> Like I said, I'd love to write a little something for someone. Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com) \- or just drop in to chat.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the best.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for being patient with me. Between a 'PWP' that [ended up being 7.5k](http://http://archiveofourown.org/works/11982168) and some serious lack of productivity and motivation, I haven't been able to get this out as fast as I wanted. But, on a happier note: hello to everybody new! Thank you for tuning in to join me on this ride. Welcome.
> 
> Thank you to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) for being an awesome beta. By my calculations, there should be four or five chapters left, including the epilogue. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The table is completely silent. Everyone’s eyes are on Dean, who’s watching the space where Castiel disappeared, his mind reeling, replaying the look on Cas’s face and the way he’d scrambled back away from Dean over and over again. His heart twists in his chest – he should’ve said something, should’ve warned his mom away from that topic before it became too much for Cas.

But he didn’t, and now Cas is gone, and he’s left with an empty chair beside him.

“What happened, honey?” his mom asks, her voice quiet and still laced with shock and no small amount of guilt, and Dean’s shoulders slump.

“His family doesn’t know about the wedding,” Dean chokes out past the lump in his throat. “They kicked him out when he came out as gay. That’s why he came to America.”

Mary’s eyes go wide, and Dean can’t stand to see the tears that are welling up there. Instead, he redirects his gaze to the table. “It’s not your fault,” he whispers. The scrape of his chair across the floor is deafeningly loud in the thick silence. “I should go talk to him.”

No one stops him as he stands and leaves the table, and he has to pause for a moment in the hallway to try and wrestle down the pain in his chest. He should’ve been looking out for Cas better – he promised he’d help with his family. He isn’t sure where it all began to spiral, where things got out of control, but he knows that Mary’s question was the fireball, the plane crashing into land. Fallen.

Now Dean can only hope that he’s able to pick up the pieces.

He finds Castiel sitting in Bobby and Ellen’s front garden, staring up at the stars. Dean doesn’t want to disturb him until he has to, but his foot knocks against a pebble and sends it skittering across the concrete path, drawing Cas’s attention. His fiancé’s eyes are too-bright and shining in the strong moonlight, and Dean can see the pain in them even in the split second of eye contact before Cas turns away.

“Go away, Dean,” is what he hears, the end muffled as Castiel presses his face into his palms. He can just see the fine tremor to Cas’s body, and he aches to just pull him close and make all the pain go away. Instead, he pushes his hands deep into his pockets – right now, he has no idea where he lies with Cas, whether the man will even want him around as he reels from this emotional reminder.

He takes a step closer, and Castiel’s hands fist in his own hair. His voice is low and twisted, as though it’s scraping over his throat with every syllable. “Dean, I told you, _go the fuck away_.” There’s no arguing with that voice, but Dean can recognise the wobble to Cas’s words, the threat of tears still to come, perched atop the precipice.

He shuffles slightly closer. “Cas, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise she was going to ask that. She wasn’t trying to hurt you or anything, she just–“

Castiel scrambles to his feet and whirls on Dean, stalking across the few paces between them. This close, Dean can see the tears welling in his eyes, the way one spills over and tracks down his cheek, following the salty path of the others that preceded it. “I told you to leave me alone, Dean!” he bites out, the harsh words punctuated by the sharp push of two palms against Dean’s chest that send him reeling back a step.

The shove is more than just a physical blow – it’s an emotional one, too, one that Dean feels slice right into his heart. He can only stare at Cas as the tears spill down his cheeks, the man’s blue eyes luminous and wet in the light of the moon.

“I’m just trying to help, Cas,” he whispers, bringing his hands out of his pockets with his need to fidget, to find an outlet for the anxiety that has sprung up in the face of this new, antagonistic, hurting Castiel.

Cas’s face twists, his bottom lip trembling, but when he speaks, his voice is cold as ice, the way Dean has only heard it a handful of times before. “Why? I dragged you into this,” he snarls, jabbing his index finger into Dean’s chest. “You don’t owe me anything, so why the _fuck_ are you helping me? It’s fake! It’s all fake! We’re going to leave Kansas in two days’ time, and we’ll go to Henriksen and tell him whatever the fuck he wants to hear, and then you’ll be an editor and I’ll keep my job and we’ll never have to see each other again!”

All of the air leaves Dean’s lungs in an instant.

He can only stare at Castiel as the man stands beneath the pale, silvery light of the moon, tears gleaming on his cheeks and his chest heaving with anger, despair, grief. He wants to help – but he can’t do that if Cas is only going to push him away, and he feels as though he’s been flayed open by the poisonous words that sizzle against his flesh and burrow deep into his heart.

It’s all fake, anyway. The kisses, the hand-holding, the small, shy glances stolen when no-one is looking. It’s not like any of it is real.

Suddenly, Dean feels very tired.

“Okay, Cas,” he whispers, his voice a scraping whisper, and Castiel blinks. His hands curl into fists and uncurl again, as though he’s spoiling for a fight, as if he wants to make Dean hurt as much as he’s hurting right now. But Dean won’t let him do that.

“Get in the car, I’ll take you home.” The words are flat, weary. Gravity has never felt so heavy on Dean’s bones and he has never felt so much as though he wants to sleep forever and wake up and have this whole thing done with. He’d thought he and Cas were becoming friends, at least – but the hurtful words Castiel lashes him with is proof that he was wrong.

Castiel’s expression falls, just for a second, and Dean catches a glimpse of the broken, aching young man that Cas must have been only eight years ago when his family turned their backs on him when he needed them the most. His face crumples as he realises that he has no means of escaping left – that Dean isn’t going to take the bait for a physical or verbal fight.

That doesn’t mean he can’t deliver one last blow that splits Dean open right to the core.

“When we’re back in New York, I want my ring back.”

He knew it was coming, that he’d have to give it back eventually. Especially now that he knows of the significance of the ring. But while he’s wearing it, he can pretend that it’s all a little more real, that there’s someone in his life who really loves him, and that his family’s excitement at his upcoming engagement isn’t completely misplaced. Because they like Cas, he can tell. And that’s going to make it all the more painful when he has to tell them that it’s not real, or that he and Cas broke up, or _something_ to explain the sudden absence of the fiancé they adored – and that Dean was coming to, too.

But this isn’t навсегда, isn't forever, and Dean was always going to have to give it back. He knows that. It doesn’t mean facing the truth doesn’t hurt.

Castiel is already striding across the grass towards the Impala, and Dean watches him go for several long moments, twisting the ring around and around his finger. It already feels normal sitting there.

A cat yowls in the distance as Dean pulls out his phone and types out a text to his mom.

Taking Cas home. Not your fault, don’t worry about it. Please tell everyone I’m sorry about what happened. 

When he tucks his phone away and looks up, Castiel is leaning against the passenger side door, his arms folded tightly and chin tucked down against his chest. It’s obvious that there’s no point trying to talk to him any further, so Dean makes his way over to the driver’s side in silence and unlocks the doors. As soon as he does, Cas turns and yanks the passenger door open, climbing inside and slamming it shut behind him with a protesting screech and bang that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. He knows that Castiel just wants to take his emotions out on something, and since Dean didn’t rise to the bait, the Impala is now taking the brunt of it, but that doesn’t mean that he forgives him for mistreating his baby.

The heavy silence hangs between them the whole drive home. When Dean turns the stereo on, Castiel doesn’t even react. His head stays turned away to the outside, resting against the glass. Dean sneaks a glance at him as they turn into the street, and catches the glint of tears along the edge of the man’s lashes.

He pulls the Impala into the driveway, idling her just outside the garage. The headlights illuminate the grey metal of the garage door, and Dean can see a few iron-red flakes of rust creeping through where the paint has worn away. “Here,” he mutters to Cas, detaching the house key from the keyring currently attached to the Impala’s ignition and handing it across the car. “You can let yourself in while I put the Impala away.”

Tentative fingers take the key from Dean’s grasp, but Cas still doesn’t look at him. At least he’s a little gentler on the car door this time as he exits. Dean breathes out a long sigh and bends forward to press his forehead against his baby’s wheel.

If only people were as easy to figure out and fix as cars.

The low rumble of the engine helps to soothe his churning, aching mind, and eventually he manages to climb out and open the garage door. Once the Impala is parked safely out of harm’s way, put to bed with a loving pat on her trunk before Dean closes up the garage again, he has no choice but to head inside. Indoors, the house is silent, lit only by the silver of the moon and the faint yellow of the streetlamps outside. The third step of the staircase creaks its protest beneath Dean’s weight. Another project, another thing he can fix while he’s here. Anything to distract himself from Castiel, from the man who could sit and read poetry for hours, who falls asleep halfway through a bee documentary and a bag of Reese’s Pieces, who even now won’t let Dean into his life. Won’t let Dean help him.

When he enters his room, a cautious hand pushing the door open in front of him, he finds Cas standing by the window and staring out at the oak tree. The moonlight washes over his hair and silhouettes him against the night outside – the only light in the otherwise dark room.

On the bed, the house key gleams silver. Cas doesn’t speak as Dean picks it up and secures it back onto his keyring – just stays where he is, hands pressed flat against the windowsill, shoulders hunched in a way that Dean has never seen from the proud, composed man. When he clears his throat, he sees one finger twitch, but otherwise, there’s no reaction.

Dean doesn’t want to disturb him, so he grabs his pyjamas and his toothbrush out of his bag and leaves the room on quiet feet. The house is eerily silent, considering it’s still quite early in the evening, and it unsettles Dean as he flicks the light on in the bathroom. This was supposed to be a _happy_ trip, damn it, not one where he’s constantly walking on eggshells around Cas and his own family.

He tries to shove it all out of his mind as he changes into boxers and a loose, comfortable t-shirt, then brushes his teeth. There’s no use dwelling on things he can’t fix, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from beating himself up at all the things he could’ve, should’ve, done differently to avoid this.

The list should start with walking into Luke and Michael’s office that fateful afternoon. But, strangely enough, it doesn’t.

That’s something that Dean very determinedly pushes to the back of his mind and padlocks into a sturdy box. Because if Cas is going to keep pushing him away like this for a whole trip, it won’t mean anything.

His feet feel too heavy as he makes his way back to his old bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him. Instead of standing by the window as he was last time Dean walked in, Castiel is now under the covers of the double bed, though he’s perched on the extreme edge of the far side, nearly to the point of falling off. Of course, his back is facing Dean.

All Dean wants to do is sleep, but he doesn’t know how he’s going to do that with Cas so close and yet still so… Upset? Angry? Miserable? He’s honestly not sure how Cas is feeling right now, and he doesn’t think Cas does either.

Dean knows how it feels to have all your thoughts and feelings jumbled together into a tangled mess, to lash out at people because you have no idea where to even start unravelling it.

On the nightstand on what has apparently been designated as ‘his’ side of the bed, his phone buzzes twice. Cas doesn’t even move in response to the sound.

The texts are from his mom.

Please tell Cas that I’m sorry.

We’ll be home later, give you guys some space. See you in the morning.

His mom shouldn’t be the one apologizing – Dean should’ve fielded the question, or warned her beforehand, _anything_ – but he figures he may as well relay the message. “Cas?” he ventures, watching the shadowy lump under the covers for any signs of movement. There are none. “Mom says she’s sorry.”

Castiel’s only reaction is to curl further in on himself, pulling the covers up a little further around him. His shoulders may be shaking just a little, but Dean isn’t going to pry – last time he tried to help, Castiel threw it all back in his face, and honestly, he still hasn’t recovered. The barbed words cut him to the core, especially since he’d thought that they’d managed to reach some kind of… friendship, at least. Even just an understanding. Something more than the boss/employee relationship of New York.

Apparently not.

Resigned, Dean sets his phone aside and crawls beneath the covers on his side of the bed. There’s still an expanse of mattress between him and the tiny space Cas is trying to inhabit with hunched shoulders and knees drawn up close. _No Man’s Land_. Dean’s heart twists bitterly in his chest at the mental joke, and he sighs as he settles into his childhood bed.

“Night, Cas,” he tries, in the vain hope that it’ll get him a response where all other attempts failed.

He thinks he hears Castiel whisper something back, right before he falls asleep. But, then again, it could have just been the trees outside the window.

 

When Dean wakes in the early morning, the bed beside him is empty. Castiel is gone, the covers on his side of the bed neatly smoothed over as if he were never there.

Dean’s heart rises into his throat, and he nearly falls in scrambling out of his bed, wild-eyed and afraid that Cas has just gone, that he’s left without even saying goodbye, resigned to deportation.

Castiel’s suitcase is still at the foot of the bed where he left it yesterday, and Dean feels the tension very slowly uncoil from his chest as he stares at the evidence that Cas hasn’t left – that he’s still here. Still with Dean. He feels like an idiot for even jumping to that conclusion so quickly, and he tries to take a moment to just steady himself, inhaling and exhaling quiet breaths in the quiet, early-morning calm of his bedroom.

Castiel isn’t here, but he’s still somewhere in the house. On bare feet, Dean pads out of his room and goes investigating.

The hallway outside his room is quiet, golden sunlight slanting through the window at the end of the hall, shifting and dancing in a kaleidoscope of movement across the carpet as a gentle breeze stirs the oak branches outside. There’s no sign of anyone – just faint snoring coming from Sam’s old room, the one beside Dean’s. The door of his parents’ room is firmly closed, the bathroom door wide open. No Cas.

So he heads downstairs, his feet careful and quiet on the stairs, skipping the third one. It’s unlikely that he’ll wake anyone up, but the early morning feels soft and fragile. Dean feels that if he breathes too hard, makes a sound above a whisper, he’ll send it teetering and the tranquillity of the sun-bathed silence will be shattered. Every step is careful, gentle, and he sighs out a slow breath as his bare feet sink into the carpet at the base of the stairs. From here, he can see into the living room, populated by its television and overstuffed couches and bookshelves but absent of any signs of his wayward boss.

The dining room is his next port of call, though he doubts Cas will be in here, and mostly uses it as the quickest route through to the kitchen. Surprisingly, Castiel is nowhere to be found among the cupboards and counters – though the coffeepot sitting by the sink, still warm when Dean touches his palm to it.

He mentally runs through his options as he pulls a mug down from the cupboard above his head and pours himself some coffee, wondering where the hell Cas could have gotten to if he’s not anywhere in the house. The sugar is a little harder to locate – it must have been moved since he was last here, and he finds the small container tucked away behind a basket of green apples resting on the counter. Dean stirs a spoonful into his coffee, then turns to lean back against the kitchen counter, and that’s when he sees Cas.

The man is sitting outside, perched cross-legged on the edge of the deck and looking out over the backyard. He’s only wearing a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and Dean can see his hair sticking up in every direction. It’s endearing, domestic, and had the events of last night not occurred, he wouldn’t hesitate in pulling open the glass sliding door and joining him.

But with the way Cas lashed out at him last night, he hesitates. He still aches from the sharp words, from Castiel’s casual dismissal of everything that Dean thought had been created and developed between them since they walked into Victor Henriksen’s office together.

And then Cas shifts, his shoulders rising in a deep inhale and then slumping in what must be a heavy sigh, and before he realises, Dean’s feet are carrying him across the kitchen to the sliding door.

The door is already unlocked, and all it takes is a firm tug to send it sliding open. Castiel jumps at the sound and twists to look up at Dean – when their eyes meet, his face falls slightly, guilt pulling at the corners of his mouth and his gaze dropping away from Dean. The events of the previous night are obviously weighing heavy on his sloped shoulders, and so Dean doesn’t speak as he crosses the deck and takes a seat on the edge beside Cas.

The morning is already warm, and so he’s comfortable in just a t-shirt and boxers, sipping at his coffee occasionally and waiting for it to wake him up. After a few minutes of silence, he notices that Cas isn’t touching his, just cradling it in his palms and shuffling it round and round.

“It’s no unsweetened soy latte, hm?” Dean jokes, the words trailing off into the silent air between them. The corner of Cas’s mouth pulls up into a smile – just minutely, but it’s better than nothing, and Dean will take his small victories where he can get them.

“No,” Castiel agrees, and his voice is quiet and a little scratchy. “It’s not bad, though. Just not what I’m used to. I would have put some sugar in it, but I couldn’t find any.”

When Cas raises the mug to his lips and sips at the strong, black coffee, Dean can see him struggling not to pull a face. He can’t help the soft chuckle that bubbles out of him – but  Cas’s expression, when he lowers the mug again, has returned to its dejected state. This is going to take some careful navigation.

“Here,” he murmurs, prying the mug out of Cas’s fingers and chuckling in response to the squint of confusion he receives. “How about you drink something that actually has a little sugar in it, instead of just pure jet fuel?” With that, he sets his own mug in the circular space left between Castiel’s hands.

Cas looks down at the mug in his hands, then back at up Dean. “Thank you,” he says solemnly, and when he sips at it, his relief is evident in the relaxation of his posture and the gentle sigh he gives. “This is much better.”

Dean doesn’t find that surprising, especially when he sips at the mug that had been Cas’s and all he tastes is _bitter_. As someone who nearly religiously sweetens his coffee, it’s… a lot. Still, he swallows it, with the resolution to not drink any more until he can head back inside and dump some sugar into it.

He’s prepared to sit out on the deck with Cas for as long as it takes, if the man wants to open up about last night. He won’t push, but he also won’t leave, even if his coffee grows cooler and cooler by the minute. Dean has been here for Castiel so far, in this crazy whirlwind of an ‘engagement’, and he isn’t about to abandon him now.

Eventually, Cas looks up towards the sky, clouds scudding across pure blue, and sighs. “I’m sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t have said those things to you last night. I was just… I was upset, and seeing the wonderful family you have made me want that, and I…” He trails off, something catching in his chest. It takes a second for him to compose himself, in which Dean waits patiently, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. After a clearing of his throat and a surreptitious swipe of the back of one hand across his eyes, Cas speaks again.

“I’m really sorry, Dean.” His voice is little more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean it all, I promise." 

Dean doesn’t have the courage to ask which parts of it were true.

Instead, he just nods, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and pull Cas close. “I know, Cas,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb over a tiny chip in the rim of the mug. “I know.”

Dean isn’t sure how long they sit there for, just looking out over the backyard, where Dean spent so much of his childhood. It could be mere minutes, it could be an hours, but the near-static passing of time is only interrupted when Castiel lets out a heavy sigh beside him, his shoulders dropping with the strength of it. “Do you think that there is any way I can make this up to Mary?” he asks quietly, slanting his gaze across to Dean for a moment before it falls and fixates on the suddenly fascinating swirl of his coffee.

Cas thinks that he needs to make this up to his mom somehow?

“Cas–“ Dean starts, but Castiel must recognise the tone in his voice, because barely a second later there’s a sharply raised hand cutting him off. “I don’t care if you don’t think I need to apologize to her, Dean.” Where Cas’s voice would usually be strong and firm, not allowing any room for doubt or confusion, now he just sounds… tired. Weary. “I feel that I should apologize, and therefore I am asking for your advice on how to achieve that.”

And, really, there’s no way Dean can dispute that. Not when, despite the bone-deep guilt and exhaustion he can feel radiating from Cas, in every word and every gesture, there’s still a tiny glimmer of the confident, snappy boss whose authority and decisions Dean has come to respect over the past two years.

It doesn’t take long for him to formulate an answer, and when he grins over at Cas, the man raises a slightly confused eyebrow. “How about you help me cook breakfast for everyone? I’m sure she’ll appreciate that. She doesn’t blame you for what happened, but if you apologize, she definitely won’t be upset.”

Castiel blinks at him, soft and slow, and his fingers worry around the edge of the mug as he turns the idea over in his mind. “Okay,” he says, the corners of his mouth tilting up into a tiny smile that coaxes an even broader one out of Dean.

“Alright.” Dean shifts the coffee mug into one hand and stands, offering his other hand to Cas to help him up. “We’d better get cooking, then,” he jokes, as Cas fits his palm against Dean’s and uses his weight as a counterbalance to pull himself up. “It takes a _lot_ to satiate the bottomless pit that is Sam Winchester’s stomach.”

Castiel chuckles quietly as he lets go of Dean’s hand, and while Dean immediately misses the contact, he’s pleased that he was able to coax a smile and a laugh from the man. That’s a small win – and after last night, he knows that he has to take baby steps with Cas to build up the trust and the comfortable rapport that they had been developing before.

“Are we going to cook, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?”

The words cut through the haze in Dean’s brain, and he blinks, shaking his head just slightly. Cas is watching him, one eyebrow raised in a wry expression, though there’s a small glint of amusement in those blue eyes. Dean knows that there must be a blush colouring his cheeks, dusting them a faint pink, and he clears his throat. “I… Uh…”

Cas’s smile grows a little wider, and Dean shoots him a mock scowl. “Shut up, you, or I’m just gonna give you a bowl of cereal and you won’t get to try the masterpiece that is a Dean Winchester omelette.” Apparently it was a reasonable threat, because Cas lifts his free hand in surrender. “My apologies, Dean.”

Satisfied that he won that round, Dean nods and turns towards the sliding door, pushing it open and leaving it there for Cas to follow him.

His first port of call is the pot of sugar, which Castiel glares at balefully as Dean heaps sugar into the bitter concoction that was once Cas’s coffee. “Why is the sugar not more prominently displayed?” Dean overhears him grumbling to himself. Cas is probably the type to have everything in his kitchen meticulously stored and labelled, whereas is Dean is much more used to the organised chaos of the Winchester kitchen and cooking style.

Dean hides his smile behind the mug of coffee – now disappointingly lukewarm – as he watches Cas look around the kitchen. His gaze eventually lands back on Dean. “At least your coffeepot is easy to locate,” he says finally, and this time Dean can’t hide his grin. “I know you’d die without your coffee, Cas. And hey, now you know where the sugar is, so you don’t die _because_ of your coffee.”

That coaxes a smile from the disgruntled man, and the atmosphere between them is a lot more relaxed than it has been since last night. It doesn’t take long for Dean to give Cas a rudimentary tour of the kitchen –

“Why is there an eggbeater in the spice cupboard, Dean?”

“I don’t _know_ , Cas. Does it really matter?”

– and then they set to cooking. While Cas is precise and methodical, carefully separating his eggs into near perfect halves, Dean cracks his with one hand over the bowl while rifling through the cupboards above with the other. When he has to stop and pick little fragments of shell from the egg in his bowl, Cas shoots him a triumphant look.

It’s not like it’s a _competition_.

Which, of course, is what it turns into.

Dean’s eggs go into a delightfully fluffy pancake mix that he just can’t wait to cook, but when Cas leans over his shoulder, peers down at the pan and says, “Aren’t pancakes supposed to be circular?”, there’s no way Dean doesn’t take that as a challenge.

(Annoyingly enough, every one of the pancakes Cas slides out of his pan and onto the waiting plate is perfectly round, despite his insistence that he doesn’t think he’s ever made pancakes before. Dean’s remain a little lopsided, more of an oval than a circle, but he tells them he loves them anyway.)

Despite the slightly competitive edge to their cooking, Dean finds that he enjoys cohabiting the space with Cas – even if their cooking styles are more than a little different.

When Cas shoots him a small smile from the stove, where he’s carefully watching the cooking eggs and bacon, Dean can’t help but smile back.

And then…

“I hope you’re not slacking off on those omelettes, Winchester,” Cas says, an eyebrow arched as he looks over at Dean. “I believe I was promised a ‘masterpiece’.”

 _There’s_ the Cas he’s used to. Dean rolls his eyes, gives a mock salute, and turns back to his chopping board, glad that things between seem to have returned to some semblance of normalcy. It’s easy to be next to Cas again, to act like they’re at least friends, if not the couple they’re supposed to be posing as. But as Dean thinks back once again to the kiss he shared with Cas, what feels like ages ago, now… Maybe being friendly is all they need to be capable of. Shooting much higher isn’t good for Dean’s sanity, anyway.

With any luck, they’ll manage to keep their heads above water for the rest of the weekend. They’ll get through it one way or another, Dean is sure, but he’s still not going to be upset if they’re faced with some smooth sailing for the next few days.

Considering the way he catches Cas smiling to himself the next time he glances over, he doesn’t think that’s going to be difficult to manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, leave a kudos or a comment, they honestly make my day, and I have so much love for my commenting squad. I love hearing what you all think, otherwise it just feels like I'm shouting out into the void.
> 
> Also, I love to chat about anything. Come talk on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Love you all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! First and foremost, let me say that I am incredibly sorry about the delay. The rough outline of my struggles includes uni assignments, general lack of motivation, and having to dedicate my time and energy to other projects. But it's here now, and I'm sorry it took so long to arrive, and I really hope you guys like it.
> 
> The biggest reason for my slow writing speed is [this fic here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160416/chapters/27597207). It's a fic that I have been co-writing with my beta and freaking amazing writer in her own right [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) (aka thepopeisdope), and it's called From Grace and Uniform. It tells the story of Dean Winchester, an omega in the FBI who has been masquerading as a beta for most of his life. Enter Castiel, the mysterious alpha who knows things about Dean that he shouldn't, and definitely isn't telling Dean everything. When Castiel walks into Dean's life with information about the murder of his mother, he turns Dean's world completely on its head.
> 
> Have I hooked you? I promise, it's really fucking awesome, and if you popped on over to check it out, I would love you forever. You won't regret it. It's already completely written and updates twice a week - half of the story has already been posted. Go check it out!
> 
> Thank you again for all your patience and all your love. You guys are amazing.
> 
> Enjoy.

Unsurprisingly, Sam Winchester is the first one downstairs.

Castiel sees the shaggy head poke around the doorway, Sam’s hair flopping across his eyes as he sniffs the air like a bloodhound. He must have followed the aroma of cooking bacon all the way from upstairs – admittedly, it does smell pretty good. He and Dean have held off eating anything for now, apart from the one seriously lopsided pancake that Castiel permitted Dean to eat.

This is supposed to be an apology breakfast, after all. It wouldn’t do for Dean to have eaten everything before the rest of the Winchester family came downstairs.

Dean hasn’t seen Sam yet, too preoccupied with the omelette he’s cooking in the pan. Castiel, however, sees the man move out of the corner of his eye – obviously, Sam doesn’t know that he’s been spotted yet. The youngest Winchester reaches for the piled plate of bacon that has been left on the counter, and just as his fingers graze the edge of the porcelain—

“Morning, Sam,” Castiel says, turning his head to watch Sam as the man jumps and snatches his hand away, face flushing pink. He can’t help but smile to himself; this family really is something else.

“Oh, hey, Cas.” Sam aims for nonchalant in his reply, but it falls flat, especially with the guilty way he’s shuffling his feet.

It takes one glance from Dean to know that his brother has been up to no good.

“Sammy,” Dean accuses, brandishing a spatula, “are you trying to poach our breakfast prematurely? I’ll have you know that that’s an offence punishable by exile from the kitchen.”

A little dramatic, perhaps, but Castiel can’t help but laugh at the expression of exaggerated horror that Sam puts on. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

The two brothers are certainly not what Castiel is used to – Gabriel was the only one who would partake in teasing of this nature – and yet he finds that he thoroughly enjoys their company. Dean’s especially.

When Sam’s stomach rumbles from where he’s still loitering pitifully by the entrance to the kitchen, Castiel decides to take pity on him.

“Alright, Sam, grab some food. Just…” He glances over at Dean, the corners of his lips quirking up into a small, hesitant smile. He’s not good at this teasing thing, but he wants to give it a go. “Leave some for everyone else?”

From the way Sam mock scowls as he grabs a plate, and the way Dean is currently beaming at him from his place by the stove, he must’ve done something right.

All the food has been cooked by the time Mary and John join them downstairs, the couple entering the kitchen just as Castiel is sitting down at the table with Sam and Dean. And just like that, the nerves that Dean had managed to dispel with their cooking session return full force, gripping his chest tight. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to even go about apologizing to Mary for the way he ran out of their family dinner last night.

 _Their_ family dinner. He’s not a Winchester, or even part of the extended family. He’s just Dean’s boss, a boss who forced his employee to bring him along to what should have been a family-only event – and under the pretence of engagement, no less. He’s a fraud, he’s a sham, he’s—

There’s a gentle touch to his elbow. When Cas looks down, Dean’s fingers are there, brushing gently against his skin. His green eyes hold a hint of worry, but they’re also reassuring. He can almost hear Dean’s voice saying, _you got this_.

He takes a deep breath, right when Mary sees the spread of pancakes and bacon and eggs and hash browns that they’ve created.

“This looks—”

“Mary, I—”

They both cut their sentences short; Mary looks amused, and Castiel can feel himself blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s already messing this up. He wanted it to be the _perfect_ apology, and he’s already messing it up.

He fiddles with the fork in his hand, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s still sitting down – should he have stood when Mary came in? Would that be more respectful, more befitting of an apology?

Luckily, and as usual, Dean steps in to save him.

“Mom, I think Cas’s got something he wants to say?”

Part of Castiel feels like a child all over again, but mostly he’s grateful for Dean’s gentle encouragement. He clears his throat and sets down his cutlery, leaning just slightly into the hand resting gently on his elbow. This whole thing would have been impossible without Dean in more ways than one.

“Mary, I wish to apologize for my actions last night. Leaving so abruptly was unacceptable, and I should have warned you that my family is a… touchy subject. If I have caused any offense or disrupted your family in any way, I’m incredibly sorry. I… I like your family very much, already, and I would be very upset with myself if I caused you all any concern or distress.”

It all comes out in an uncontrollable rush of words that leaves Castiel gulping in a huge breath and staring resolutely down at his empty plate in the silence that follows.

He can feel the eyes of the entire Winchester family on him; even John who he knows is lingering awkwardly by the doorway of the kitchen. It’s far too open, exposed.

When Dean’s fingers curl gently over his own, Castiel realises that his hand is trembling where it’s resting atop the table. He releases a long, shaky breath and tries to calm himself as Dean’s fingers gently intertwine with his. Dean’s thumb smooths across his knuckles and he doesn’t let go.

“Castiel, honey,” Mary begins, and her voice is so soft, so gentle. It’s how he always thought a mother should sound, from the few movies he’d seen on TV back home. Kind. Warm. Caring.

How is this family even real?

“It’s absolutely not your fault for what happened,” she continues. Castiel’s immediate instinct is to argue that, but he doesn’t get any farther than inhaling before Dean’s hand tightens again over his own, pre-empting him and keeping him silent as Mary keeps talking.

“I shouldn’t have pushed the matter, even if I wasn’t aware of the situation. I’m very sorry for the position I put both you and Dean in, and I hope you can forgive me for it.”

This isn’t how he wanted it to go at all. He’s the one in the wrong, not Mary. Stubborn as it may be, Castiel opens his mouth to return to that point – and then Dean’s leaning in again, radiating warmth through his threadbare t-shirt, and suddenly Cas is struggling to remember what he was going to say.

Dean’s lips are just barely brushing his ear, and it takes all the concentration he can muster to focus on the words being whispered.

“Just let it go, Cas,” the man says, and Castiel swears he can feel his smile. “This isn’t a fight you’re gonna win.”

When Cas glances back at Mary, her expression is kind, but there’s also a stubborn spark in her grey-blue eyes that Castiel definitely recognises. He’s seen it enough times in his assistant, after all. And had he not pulled rank on Dean every time they found themselves falling into an argument, Cas has a sneaking suspicion that he may have lost more than a few battles.

In the end, with Dean’s lips still against his ear and a warm palm over his own, Castiel concedes the argument. If Dean is telling him to back down, that’s what’s best to do. He knows his family better than Castiel does, anyway.

He exhales a barely-controlled sigh and smiles – though it still feels just a little forced around the edges. “Of course I forgive you, Mary.” The corner of his mouth ticks up just a little further. “But I hope that you can still accept my apology breakfast, or else mine and Dean’s pancake competition will have been for naught.”

Sam points his fork at the two plates in the centre of the table, one holding a neat stack of perfectly round pancakes, and the other that is… a little more lopsided.

“Give you one guess which one’s Dean’s.”

The kitchen erupts into laughter as Dean scowls, and Castiel can’t resist turning to press a quick kiss to Dean’s temple. They’re supposed to be acting like a couple, after all, and it seems to cheer Dean up a little, judging by the way his eyes crinkle, which is what matters most.

As the Winchesters tuck into breakfast, balance restored to the household, Castiel can’t keep the small smile off his lips.

They left the house right after breakfast, and when they return early in the evening, Castiel feels warm and sun-kissed, and now he _really_ can’t stop smiling.

He’s also exhausted.

Tomorrow is already slated to be busy, what with all the preparations for Sam’s big graduation party (which is also partially to say goodbye to Dean as he returns to New York for an unspecified length of time), so the Winchesters had been determined to fit as much into one Saturday as they possibly could.

Castiel has seen the whole town, eaten lunch by the Kansas River, been thoroughly beaten at Galaga at the local arcade and learned how to throw a football at Lawrence High’s football field – an extension of their trip that Dean had insisted upon for ‘nostalgia purposes’. Dean had goggled at him when he’d gingerly picked up the football and claimed he didn’t know what to do with it, but after the reminder that American football was not overly common in Russia, Dean had relented on the teasing.

All in all, it had been a wonderful day spent with Dean and his family, the likes of which he couldn’t remember having in…

Well, ever, really.

By the time that they're tumbling in the front door after their long day out, Castiel's skin feels warm and his mind feels light. For the first time in a long time, he'd simply spent the whole day outside, doing things. And it's endlessly refreshing, especially when he spends so long inside at a desk most days, poring over manuscripts.

Spending the day with the Winchesters has been a lovely experience; one that he will hold close to his heart for a long time to come, but, unfortunately, one that he likely will not be repeating at any point in the near future.

Sure, he can always go for a walk or spend the day outside – there's always Central Park – but the key part of the experience is to have people to share it with. Friends.

That line of thought is beginning to become depressing. Castiel shakes it away and hefts the grocery bags up higher as he makes his way through to the kitchen with John. On their way home, they'd bought a few important ingredients for the pies that Mary is going to bake tomorrow, since they need to happen in the morning while the rest of the family is out shopping for the rest.

It's been a long time since Castiel was at any kind of party that didn't involve cocktails and expensive suits and clientele, so despite the interrogation he knows he will receive as Dean's 'fiancé', he's really rather excited.

He sets the bags down on the kitchen counter and begins to put the ingredients away without being prompted – he's pretty certain he knows where everything belongs. Or, at least, where it _should_ belong. The state of the Winchester kitchen is just short of distressing, even though Dean fondly describes it as ‘organised chaos’.

John claps him on the back as Cas starts unpacking the bags, and gives him an approving smile. "You're alright, Cas. You treat my boy right, we won't have any problems."

And while that leaves a little bit of a sour taste in Castiel's mouth, he nods and forces a smile that's only half-faked. While the engagement may be all a lie, he would never do anything to hurt Dean.

"Of course," he replies, turning back to the shopping bags as John wanders out of the kitchen. He can hear the rest of the Winchesters still outside – likely organising temporary homes for the two kegs that they’d purchased. Castiel doesn’t mind being left alone with the groceries, as the repetition allows him to settle his thoughts, centre himself.

He’s almost finished, reaching up to the high cabinet where the flour is kept to carefully store it away, when suddenly there are a pair of arms wrapping around his torso, and a chin coming to rest on his shoulder.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," Dean murmurs, and the sound of it sends a tiny shiver down Castiel's spine. Dean has definitely been more affectionate today, with his little touches and soft smiles and even a kiss on the cheek or two, putting on a show for his family. Perhaps some of that acting is carrying over into their private time.

Whatever the reason, though, it feels wonderful, and he isn't going to complain.

"Just finishing up with the groceries," he points out, almost redundantly as he folds up the empty bag and sets it aside. Dean chuckles against his shoulder, low and warm, and Castiel leans into the arms encircling his waist. "My hero, Cas," Dean teases, eliciting a smile.

"Putting away groceries is a heroic task? I will have to keep that in mind so I can impress you more often."

Dean’s laugh is more than just a chuckle this time, and Castiel can feel it rumbling against his back. Unfortunately, only a second later, Dean’s arms relinquish their hold, and the warmth disappears as he steps back.

“Yeah, Cas, I find it all kinds of sexy,” Dean jokes, and his soft half-smile is enough to take Castiel’s breath away, content and unguarded as he is.

Being around Dean Winchester with his walls so far down is undoubtedly dangerous.

But it’s also wonderful.

The front door opens, a muted sound from the front of the house that’s followed by the quiet sound of voices. They trail off and disappear up the stairs into silence, though, and Castiel knows that the rest of the Winchesters aren’t going to disturb them right now. They’ve done a good job at playing the couple today, and have earned themselves some space alone in the kitchen for a little while.

Dean sets about making the two of them grilled cheese sandwiches while Castiel leans against the counter near him, and it’s unbelievably domestic. They eat their late dinner side by side, standing elbow to elbow while they talk about nothing. Dean catches Cas gazing at him at one point and grins, his cheeks overstuffed with an ambitious, too-big bite of sandwich, and somehow even that manages to be adorable.

Only a few minutes later, though, Castiel’s eyes begin to droop, his exhaustion hitting him hard. He sways on his feet – back, forth, hip bumping into the counter – and is steadied by a large, firm hand on his shoulder. Green eyes and a fond half-smile swim into focus, and Castiel blinks, trying to disperse the sudden fuzziness that is trying to tempt him towards sleep, lest he pass out on the kitchen tiles.

“Hey, champ.” Dean’s voice is low and steady and calm, like waves lapping at the sand, like wind brushing through fields of long grass under the warm summer sun. Like honey and molasses.

It’s been a long time since Castiel actually wrote anything of his own, but he could dedicate whole tomes simply to the description of Dean Winchester. He smiles, slow and giddy.

“ – get you to bed, huh?”

Castiel shakes his head slightly, and the world attempts to reorient itself. Bed. Bed sounds good. His tiredness had hit him without warning; the moment of inertia after a full day of endless activity, and now he wants nothing more than to curl up beneath clean, crisp sheets and sleep.

“That sounds good,” he mumbles, resisting the urge to sway forwards against Dean. The man would catch him, he has no doubt, with a broad chest and gentle hands. But he’s not meant to catch him – not physically, anyway. Dean has always been there to support Cas and help him in the right direction, but the physicality of their relationship was never meant to exist. They’re _not_ engaged.

He thinks of strong arms around his waist, of soft lips pressed against his own. He sways forwards anyway.

Dean catches him with a hand on each shoulder and a soft chuckle, helping him upright again. “God, you really are out of it, aren’t you?”

 _Not completely_ , Castiel wants to say. _I’m awake enough to know what I’m doing_.

His longing to have Dean’s hands on him, his craving for touch and contact and companionships… well, that’s his secret. Dean doesn’t need to know.

Castiel could make his way up to Dean’s room by himself – the world is represented in sharper qualities now, in the charcoal draping of shadows and the faintly golden glow of outside streetlamps through sheer curtains. But if he tells Dean that he’s perfectly capable of setting one foot in front of the other and not keeling over, no doubt the arm settled around his shoulders would be removed. No, better to stay silent, and cherish any moment of contact that he is allowed before they return to New York and the cool, distant relationship of editor and assistant.

He’s starting to wonder if, in asking Dean to marry him, he’s set into motion something that cannot be undone. Experiences that cannot be unlived, emotions that cannot be unfelt, touches and whispers and kisses than can never be rescinded or forgotten.

So be it.

Dean guides him up the stairs and into his room, making sure that Castiel is sitting safely on the bed and is in no danger of losing his balance and ending up sprawled out on the floor or knocking his head into a piece of furniture. The warm arm draws away, leaving behind an uneasy sensation of lightness across his shoulders; he immediately wants it back, but Dean is already grabbing his pyjamas from the end of the bed and retreating towards the door.

“Won’t be a minute, Cas, just let me get changed and brush my teeth.”

And then Castiel is alone with just his own thoughts and the tiredness that is pulling at his bones. He wants to stay awake, to wait for Dean to return, and he’s sure that he can. It’ll surely only be a few more minutes that he has to keep his eyes open for. But the bed beneath him is soft, and the sheets so tempting… surely he can lie down for just a few seconds, right?

He knows it’s a bad idea, that once he’s horizontal and stretched out on the bed, there’s no way he’s staying awake. It’s so irresistable, though, calling to him like a siren’s song, beckoning with the cotton weave and down-fluffed pillows. Surely a few seconds wouldn’t hurt.

Unsurprisingly, the next time he blinks his eyes open, the room is no longer bathed in the golden glow of the lightbulb in the ceiling, but instead lit by the softer, shaded light by Dean’s bed. It’s dark and cozy and warm, made even more so by the blankets pulled up to his shoulders and the warm body beside his own.

Dean is reading by the light of the bedside lamp; when Castiel stirs, he glances over his book, and his eyes soften. “Hey there. Wasn’t sure you’d wake up until the morning, you seemed pretty tired.”

Castiel blinks, his eyes still adjusting to the light, and rolls over onto his side so that he can look up at Dean. The man is haloed in golden light, his green eyes sparkling in the semi-darkness of the room. The shadows can’t touch him.

He makes a quiet, non-committal sound and shifts his head, stubble scratching against the pillow. “Didn’t mean to sleep,” he murmurs – if he speaks too loudly, he’ll disrupt this delicate moment, here in the room that he can pretend is theirs, lit by forgiving lamplight and populated by stories upon stories upon stories.

How will their own story end?

Dean slides a bookmark between delicate pages and sets the book aside on the nightstand. He reaches for the switch to turn off the bedside lamp, then turns back to Castiel, one eyebrow raised. “You want the light off?”

The need for sleep is still there, prowling at the edges of his consciousness. Castiel doesn’t want to succumb just yet, but looking at Dean is too bright. He nods, a yawn parting his jaws, and blinks again when Dean flicks off the switch and plunges the room into darkness.

The mattress shifts as Dean lowers himself down from a sitting position until he’s stretched out under the covers opposite Cas. As his eyes adjust, Castiel can make out the green glimmer of the man’s eyes, illuminated by the faint light of the moon that filters through the windows. The shadows on the far wall shift in a monochromatic kaleidoscope as the wind tugs at the branches of the tree outside. Silence hangs between them; not heavy or suffocating, but calm. Comfortable.

Castiel is the one to break it, in his sleep-roughened voice. “I had a really good time today, Dean.”

And he had. Dean’s family was wonderful, with their casual teasing and conversations about anything at all and the way they’ve opened their hearts to Castiel. He suppresses the familiar knife-twist of guilt in his gut, focuses instead on his memories of warm sunshine, of laughter and joy and hands on his body, lips pressing against his hair.

Arguably the best part of today had been spending time with Dean, pretending to be one half of an enamoured couple. Dean had touched him so gently, so casually, with a hand on his back or an arm around his shoulders or their fingers intertwined. It’s almost addictive, and Cas has become accustomed to it scarily easily. It will be difficult to return to his empty apartment on Monday, with its impersonal walls and suffocating silence.

It will be difficult to return to his empty apartment without Dean by his side.

“Me too, Cas,” Dean replies, his teeth glinting white as he smiles. Castiel wishes he could close the gap between them and kiss Dean like he had at the airport – but they’re not pretending here. There’s no need to. And yet, he aches for it anyway.

He needs something to distract him, anything, and seizes on the first one that comes to his sleep-dazed mind.

“You have a wonderful family.” Cas chuckles, quiet and a little bitter. “This must be what a proper family’s like, isn’t it? God, I had no idea.” His family was never like that – instead of warm and friendly and welcoming, they were cold, unemotional, manipulative. There was little laughter to be found in the Krushnic household, and it wasn’t a name that Castiel had been sad to lose when he moved to America and recreated himself.

Dean’s smile has faded now, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that Castiel hates seeing. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he mumbles, his voice quiet. Castiel wants to tell him that there’s no need to be sorry, that there’s nothing he can do… but no-one has ever expressed sympathy or sorrow over the circumstances that drove him from his home country. Very few people even know about it.

The words are a balm over a still-healing wound, and Cas sighs, his lips pulling into a rueful expression.

“It’s not your fault, Dean. But thank you, I do appreciate it. They weren’t the worst people in the world… but apathy and vanity can be just as bad as evil.” No, his family had definitely not been evil. Just… archaic. Self-obsessed. Unable to comprehend even a fraction of what twenty-year-old Castiel had been going through.

It’s been a long time since Castiel has allowed himself to think this freely about the people he left behind in Russia. About his mother Naomi, his step-father Bartholomew, his sister Anna and brothers Inias and Virgil and Gabriel – the only good one of the lot, who’d had the foresight to get away before Castiel even recognised the slightest hint that his family was not what families were supposed to be.

He fights back the emotions that threaten to swell in his chest and burst through his ribcage, and gives Dean a tired, wobbly smile. “I’m in a better place now that I’m away from them, I suppose.” If a ‘better place’ means long hours and no friends and more money that he knows what to do with and a perpetually empty apartment.

Dean looks a little sceptical – his family is so near-perfect that it must be a difficult concept to grasp. “You… you don’t miss them at all?”

He misses having a family, the idea of having people who would stand by him no matter what… but his family was never like that in the first place. Castiel shakes his head.

“No.”

But then he catches a glint of silver, the moon reflecting off Dean’s hand.

“I miss my grandparents,” he amends after a few seconds, recalling Russian folktales and warm evenings by the fire and the kindest smiles. His heart aches, and Dean must recognise that he can’t talk about it anymore, because he lets Castiel wrestle with his emotions in silence. Cas is too proud to admit that he’s struggling, however wonderful it would feel to have some kind of physical comfort, to have those gentle hands soothe him into calmness.

But he’s never going to have that either.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice breaks through the quiet after a little while, and Castiel tries to force the lump from his throat so that he can reply.

“Yes, Dean?” If it’s anything else about his family, Castiel can’t promise that he won’t burst into tears with the sheer strength of the unearthed emotions that he’s attempted to suppress for so many years. Dean has already seen him cry once – he doesn’t want a repeat of last night.

The man shifts, bites his lip, and Castiel can see his thumb stroking over the worn silver band on his left ring finger. He almost seems to second-guess himself, but then takes a deep breath and blurts out his question.

“Can you say something in Russian for me? I…” If it weren’t so dark, Castiel is sure that Dean would be blushing. “I like hearing you speak it. It sounds nice.”

The corners of Castiel’s lips curl up into a small smile, and he nods, casting his thoughts into his native language to figure out what he wants to say. This is a good distraction, something he can do that won’t continue to dredge up memories that should be left buried.

He isn’t really thinking about what to say, and he doesn’t mean to say what he does – it rises up and demands to be said, the words forming on his tongue before he even realises – but as soon as it’s out in the air between them, he knows that it is undoubtedly true.

“я думаю, что я в тебя влюбляюсь.”

Dean wrinkles his nose and tilts his head to the side a little, obviously at a loss to what the words mean, and the heavy weight behind them. It simultaneously makes Castiel smile and shatter, and he reaches out to touch Dean’s left hand, over the ring. His skin is warm to the contact.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, his voice quiet and tremulous in the quiet darkness of the night. Castiel’s thumb smooths over warm skin.

“It means ‘go to sleep,’ Dean.”

A lie, of course, but there’s no way he could ever tell Dean the real thing. Not when they’ll be returning to work in a few days, in what will be a strictly boss/employee relationship. But having said it at all, even in a language that Dean doesn’t understand… it feels freeing. His heart is light.

Dean looks down at the hand covering his, then back up at Castiel’s soft expression and gentle smile. He opens his mouth, as though he’s about to ask a question – but a tiny crease of a frown appears between his brows and he shakes his head, as though he thinks better of it. His smile is lazy and warm and affectionate, and those beautiful green eyes hold a hint of tiredness as he nods. “Okay, Cas.”

Castiel is forced to withdraw his hand – his fingertips tingle where they had touched Dean’s skin, and he holds his hand against his chest and simply cherishes this still moment for a heartbeat longer. His days of falling asleep beside Dean are numbered, but tiredness is winning out, and he is close to succumbing.

“Good night, Dean,” he whispers into the space between them. In his blink before his eyes close for good, he sees Dean’s smile widen, and his fingers twitch as though he wants to reach across the space. Probably just his imagination, though.

“Night, Cas.”

Castiel is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> я думаю, что я в тебя влюбляюсь = I think I'm falling in love with you.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the best! And please come check me out on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), I do a little writing over there and also just generally love to chat to people. Come say g'day!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote out a big long note here, and then AO3 timed me out and I lost it all. What fun!
> 
> Basically, I'm sorry for the delay, I've been working on my Pinefest, but I miss you guys and don't want to leave you hanging for too long (plus my Pinefest is driving me up the wall). I'm planning to get this done by the New Year, there are only two chapters and an epilogue left.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing Dean notices when he wakes up, early on Sunday morning, is _warmth_.

There’s already sunlight streaming through the window, bright against his eyelids and warm on his exposed skin. That’s what he chalks the warmth up to as he squeezes his eyes closed tighter, his brow creased in a tiny, disgruntled frown as he turns his head to the side in an attempt to escape the encroaching sunlight. His nose brushes into something soft, something that smells vaguely like watermelon. He hums and nuzzles into it just slightly, humming out a soft, content sigh.

And then his brain catches up with the messages it’s being sent, his nerves informing it of sun-warm skin and a body-warm cocoon of blankets, of a weight along his side and a right arm that is not communicating at all, completely numb. His brain registers _weight_ and _warmth_ and _watermelon_ and very slowly, belatedly, pieces the picture together.

Castiel is tucked in against Dean’s right side, his head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder and arm flung haphazardly over his stomach. Dean’s own arm is wrapped around Cas’s shoulders – hence the pins and needles feeling. How did they end up like this? They hadn’t even been touching when they fell asleep, and Dean at no point recalls having woken up and made a conscious decision to cuddle with his fiancé.

_Fake_ fiancé.

There’s no-one else around, no need for them to be acting like this. In private, they’re boss and employee – maybe even friends. Dean has definitely come to think of Cas as a friend over the past few days. But this cuddling isn’t necessary, even if it was just an accident.

By rights, Dean should just pull away, slide his arm out from under Castiel, roll over and pretend like this never happened.

But Cas looks so sweet and vulnerable, asleep in the early morning light. It’s the first time Dean has seen him like this, with his guard completely down – though he has a feeling that the deliriously-tired Cas from last night had come close. This is Castiel at his most unguarded. Dean is probably the only person in a long time who has seen Castiel like this, and…

He can’t be blamed for being just a little bit selfish.

Dean angles his body away from the window a little, careful not to disturb Cas as he carefully adjusts their positions so that he maybe has a chance of getting to feel his arm again. Cas mumbles to himself in his sleep and shifts against Dean’s chest a little, but ultimately doesn’t wake, and Dean mentally breathes a sigh of relief.

Castiel is warm skin and soft edges, and Dean will let himself have this selfish fragment of the man, just for a little while. He tucks his nose in against the top of Cas’s head, and it doesn’t take long for sleep to draw him back once more.

When he wakes a second time, the bed is colder. The sun is coming through the window at a sharper angle and pooling on the floor beside the bed, and the right side of his body is cooler than it was before he slept the second time. He can feel his right arm.

Dean forces his eyes open and raises his head a little – the movement attracts Castiel’s attention, and he glances over, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

He’s so beautiful.

He’s also not pressed against Dean’s side any more. Instead, he’s sitting up against the headboard, the book of poetry resting in his lap as he looks down at Dean. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, sleep-warm rumble. Dean can’t help but smile in return, rolling over onto his side to be able to see Cas better.

“Morning, Cas.”

Usually, Castiel is the grumpy one who, Dean assumes, would much rather stay in bed, buried under the covers. It’s surprising that he’s already reasonably awake – though he did the same yesterday, in the aftermath of the disastrous family dinner. There had been something wrong then, and it feels like there may be something a little off now.

Cas beats him to the punch.

“I believe we may have ended up a little closer than intended last night,” Castiel begins, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, “and I wanted to apologize for—“

Dean holds up a hand to cut Castiel off, then drops it back down to the mattress with a half-asleep grin. “You talkin’ about how you ended up cuddled up next to me? Don’t worry about it, we all do weird things in our sleep. Relax, Cas.” And, besides. It’s not like Dean had minded. Not that he’s… into Cas. Or anything. He just misses having someone warm and cuddly in his bed sometimes, is all.

It looks as though Castiel is going to argue the point, but a pointed look from Dean has him rolling his eyes fondly, shaking his head, and returning to the book. He smugly congratulates himself for winning the silent argument, content to lie in bed and doze and maybe watch Cas a little in the morning light as the man reads. The slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the softness to those blue eyes as he reads – how the hell did Cas not have a boyfriend before this? He’s stunning, and now that Dean has peeled back the tough, snarky outer layer, he’s getting to see just how wonderful Cas is on the inside as well.

His thoughts are interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the bedroom door, and the voice of a certain young Winchester.

“Hey! Quit… doing whatever you’re doing in there – I don’t wanna know – and get your asses out of bed, there’s shit to do!”

Sometimes, Dean really hates his little brother.

And sometimes, he just can’t resist the urge to fuck with him.

“Quit interrupting morning sex, Sam!” he shouts back with a grin that only widens as they hear a resulting “Gross, Dean!” and the sound of footsteps disappearing back down the hallway. When Dean looks back over at Cas, still sporting a shit-eating grin, his ‘fiance’ just raises one eyebrow. It’s the tiny quirk of his lips that betrays his amusement, and Dean just shrugs, unashamed. “What? Like you’d pass up on an opportunity like that?”

The look he gets in return tells Dean that _yes_ , Cas would pass up on that opportunity. But it’s tempered by fondness and amusement, and that’s all that matters.

Fake morning sex or no, they do actually have to get up. Dean’s phone tells him that it’s already pretty late in the morning, and considering the amount of party preparation that needs to happen today, he’s surprised that Sam hadn’t been sent up to rouse them earlier. He sighs and glances up at Cas, who’s still watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“We really do have to get up,” Dean points out with a rueful twist of his lips, much as he wishes they could have a nice, relaxed morning lie-in, sitting and reading and talking about anything and everything. He wants to make the most of the twenty-four hours they have left as a ‘couple’, before they return to New York and the normality it holds.

It doesn’t seem like Cas is feeling any more motivated to get out of bed, judging by the way he sighs and reluctantly closes the book, setting it aside on the nightstand. “There’s no way that your parents would let me, a guest, simply stay here and read all day?” His expression looks entirely too serious, but Dean recognises the tiny uptilt of one corner of his mouth that betrays the fact that he’s joking.

“Nah, Cas,” he replies with a grin, “you’re my fiancé. You’re basically family. Castiel Winchester has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

It was just meant to be a joke, a little light teasing, but the almost imperceptible smile disappears. Cas holds his gaze for a second more, then looks away out the window. The energy of the room has shifted yet again, and Dean has no idea what it was about the joke that did it, just that it _was_ caused by the joke. As such, he doesn’t really know what to say, how to fix the conversation.

He reaches out one hand, as though to touch Cas on the shoulder, but thinks better of it halfway through and lets it drop to the mattress between them. Castiel glances back at him, and for a second they’re caught like that, neither speaking, simply… watching.

And then Castiel’s shuttered expression lifts, and he gives Dean a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, regardless, we should go and get some food. It sounds like there’s a lot to do today, and I wouldn’t like to be operating on an empty stomach if Sam has eaten all of our breakfast.”

Dean still isn’t sure what just happened, or which part of his joke made Castiel close off like that, and he’s still curious about it, but pushing won’t get him anywhere with Cas. If anything, he’d only close off more, so Dean lets himself smile and gives an affirming nod. “Actually eating breakfast sounds good,” he admits – he’s been the victim of Sam’s appetite far too many times to risk it happening again.

With that decided, Dean reluctantly rolls himself out of bed and stretches his hands up towards the ceiling, groaning as his vertebrae crack. As much as he’d like to stay in bed with Cas all day, Sam is definitely not going to bring them breakfast in bed after Dean’s joke, so the only way to placate his rumbling stomach is to actually go downstairs. Castiel is quick to follow him out of bed – Dean rolls his eyes fondly as he watches his fiancé straighten the covers on his side of the bed. Of course.

They make their way downstairs side-by-side and head towards the kitchen. Sam glares at Dean from where he’s sitting with his phone in one hand and spoon in the other, stirring idly through his bowl of cereal as he browses Facebook. Dean just grins back and winks at his little brother. It’s always fun to make him suffer, especially when Dean only gets to see him a couple of times a year. There’s a lot of teasing to fit into a short space of time.

Sam just huffs and ignores him, so Dean returns his attention to Cas, grabbing the box of cereal from the bench and brandishing it in a question. Castiel nods from where he’s retrieving two mugs and the sugar, and Dean pours them each out a bowl as Cas makes them each a cup of coffee.

“We were not actually having sex, Sam,” Castiel assures him as he sits down at the table with his mug of coffee and his bowl of cereal, his expression deadly serious. Dean can’t hide his chuckle quickly enough – it’s like Cas thinks that this will make Sam _less_ uncomfortable. If anything, bringing it up again is worse, and he’s totally correct. Sam’s cheeks and the tips of his ears go pink, and he nearly chokes on his next mouthful of cereal. Castiel frowns, concerned, as Sam struggles to get it down. Dean just grins wider.

“Cas, I really… I really just don’t want to know, okay? The less information I know, the better.” Sam jabs his spoon accusingly in Dean’s direction without breaking eye contact with Castiel. “Whatever you do, _don’t_ end up like him.”

Dean has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, waiting to see what Cas does.

Without changing his expression, completely deadpan, Cas asks, “Handsome and clever and great in bed?”

There’s no holding back Dean’s laughter this time. Sam throws his hands up in the air in frustration, scoops up his bowl of cereal and stalks out of the kitchen, presumably to find somewhere more peaceful to eat his breakfast. Dean has never been more proud of Cas than he is in this moment, and he grins at his fiancé as he takes a seat at the table.

Castiel’s lips quirk up into a smile, and the spark is back in his eyes. “Evidently, I have no reference as to the last quality, but…” He shrugs one shoulder and dips his spoon into his cereal. “I have not had a sibling to ‘mess with’ in a long time. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

A grown man making air quotes with his free hand should not be this endearing, but Dean can’t help it. He really, _really_ likes this different side of Cas. “I’m so proud. Just you wait, though – before long, he’ll decide that you’re part of the family, and you’ll have to deal with his retaliation.”

Castiel’s smile drops a little, and Dean remembers too late that today is their last full day in Lawrence, that they’re flying out tomorrow. Unless they actually have to go through with a wedding in order to keep Cas in the country (Dean really hopes it never comes to that), Cas will probably never see Sam again after tomorrow morning.

He mentally kicks himself. Cas is just staring down at his cereal now, slowly stirring it with his spoon. The silence in the kitchen feels fragile, a crystal vase already too close to falling thanks to Dean’s idiocy.

Cas really likes Dean’s family, he can tell. Every reminder that this is only temporary, that the whole thing is a ruse… it must hurt. Dean can only imagine.

The rest of breakfast is very quiet.

Castiel is staring into his half-empty coffee mug, and Dean is quietly making himself some toast, when Mary comes bustling into the kitchen. If she picks up on the odd atmosphere between the two ‘fiancés’, she doesn’t comment on it. “Are you two only just getting up? You are truly terrible guests of honour, you know that? At this rate, the party is only going to be for Sam’s graduation.”

Still, she gives Dean a good-morning kiss on the cheek like she always has, and rubs Castiel’s shoulder before pulling out the chair beside him. Cas just looks confused, raising an eyebrow at Dean. He shrugs. “Mom always likes to have a little get-together before I leave town again, since I’m usually away so long. This time, I’m guessing she’s lumping it in together with Sam’s graduation and… our engagement?”

Mary nods, launching into a game plan that Dean is only really half-listening to as he watches Castiel. He’s watching Mary’s hands as they point to certain things on her list and gesticulate wildly, but… it’s like he’s not really seeing. Like he’s somewhere else, thinking about other things. Not quite here.

Dean frowns, and tries to catch his eye over Mary’s head. After a few attempts, Cas looks up, that blue gaze boring into Dean. He gives another one of those slightly sad half-smiles that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Dean raises an eyebrow a little. _You okay?_ it says.

He gets a tiny nod in return, and Dean tries to give him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It’s all gonna turn out fine. Yes, they’ll have to spend a whole evening pretending to be together, talking about their engagement and an upcoming wedding (that will hopefully never happen, otherwise Dean is going to end up with premature grey hair from the stress of lying to both his family and the government more than they already are). But regardless of what happens, they’ll make it through.

Mary clears her throat. Dean redirects his gaze almost instantly to find his mom looking at him, her expression less than impressed. “Neither of you are listening, are you?”

Dean and Castiel both shake their heads guiltily, and Mary sighs. “Didn’t think so. Okay, lovebirds. I just need you to go out and pick up the keg that we ordered, as well as grab a few extra things that I forgot yesterday. Then there are a couple of jobs that I need you for at home before the party starts at five. Is that too much information for you to process?”

“No, mom,” Dean says, at the same time as Castiel replies, “No, Mrs. Winchester.”

At least their synchronicity somewhat diminishes Mary’s irritation, and she smiles as she reaches out to squeeze Cas’s shoulder fondly. “I’m so glad you found this one, Dean,” she says, folding up her list and standing up. “I like him. Keep him around.”

Mary leaves the kitchen, and silence lingers in her wake, unspoken and half-formed words hanging in the air.

Dean scuffs his socked foot across the tiles as he eats his toast, but eventually they’re both finished with breakfast. Cas stands to clear up the remnants of their breakfast, and Dean falls into place beside him, wordlessly handing each other plates and condiments and cartons of milk until everything is back in its rightful place.

Whatever it is that’s been lingering between them is still there, but as Castiel squares his shoulders and gives Dean a smile that’s more than convincing than the others had been, it dissipates somewhat, and Dean smiles back. “We better go run those errands for my mom, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” he points out, though his voice is soft, tentative. He’s not sure where he stands with Cas right now, has no idea what’s going on in the man’s head.

But whatever it is that’s been affecting Castiel fades away until, once again, he’s the man that Dean has come to know and like, nodding his agreement and turning to head back upstairs. Dean watches him go for a few seconds before following – he can’t put his finger on how he can tell, or if there’s anything about Cas’s expression that has changed, but he feels… better. Normal. Or, whatever’s bothering him, he’s shoved it down deep enough to ignore it and pretend it’s not there.

Dean’s no stranger to that.

He scrubs a hand over his face and follows Castiel upstairs.

Just one more day.

 

By the time Dean manages to make it back to his bedroom for a moment or two of peace, he’s exhausted, and it’s barely early afternoon. This party had better be worth it, for all the effort that they’re putting into it. Mary’s been working them all like a slave driver – except for Cas, who’s been getting all the fun jobs.

After the two of them drove out to pick up the keg, and a few other things on Mary’s list (as well as a packet of bee-decorated napkins that Cas had insisted on buying, and damn it, his fiancé must be taking lessons in puppy-dog eyes from Sam), they carted it all back home, where his mom promptly put them both to work.

Except, while Dean ended up helping his dad tidy up the house, fix the creaking step, repaint the garage door and scrub the deck clean, Cas was whisked away into the kitchen with Mary to help with the cooking. Whenever Dean passes by, Cas has a very serious look on his face as Mary shows him what to do, as though he takes it all very seriously. It’s incredibly endearing – especially when Cas sees Dean watching and smiles, wide and happy with teeth as white as the smudge of flour across his cheekbone.

When he sees how happy Cas’s assistance and success is making him, Dean can’t even be mad that he got given the cushy job.

Okay, maybe he’s still a little annoyed. Cooking (or, more accurately, constantly ‘sampling’ the food) is one of his favourite jobs.

Maybe the sampling thing is why Mary got Castiel to help her instead of Dean.

Eventually, John deems their jobs complete and heads outside to help Sam finish up with decorating the backyard. Dean is more than happy to use John’s temporary distraction to escape, not wanting to get roped into the inevitable arguments about banner placement and whether the barbeque needs to be moved further away from the deck. Instead, he slips back inside, intending to find Cas so that they can spend a bit more time hanging out before the rest of their friends and family arrive.

But when he pokes his head into the kitchen, he finds only Mary, putting the finishing touches on her pies before they go into the oven. Dean frowns, and steps into the doorway. “Mom? Where’s Cas?”

Mary doesn’t look up from the pie she’s working on, too busy flattening down the edges of the pastry. “He spilled some filling on himself by accident, so I assume he’s still upstairs. I told him I had everything under control, that he could have some time to himself before the party. He was a huge help.”

The thought of Cas and his mom cooking together warms Dean’s heart more than he’d expected it to, and he catches himself smiling. What a sappy fucker he’s becoming.

As much as he’d like to hang around and try to steal some leftover pie filling (risky, considering the spatula sitting very close to Mary’s right hand), he wants to find Cas more, so he heads upstairs in search of his fiancé. His bedroom door is still wide open, with no sign of Castiel inside, but the bathroom door is closed and when Dean gets closer, he can hear the shower running. Beneath that, barely audible from where Dean is standing, is the sound of singing.

Cas’s voice is low and quiet, lifting in a gentle melody, and when he presses his ear to the door, he can pick out words that he doesn’t recognize, words that he assumes are in Russian. Layered beneath the sound of running water, it’s mesmerising to listen to, and Dean stays pressed up against the door for at least half a minute – before he realises that if anyone comes up the stairs right now, it’s going to be a weird situation to have to explain.

So, reluctantly, he withdraws from the door and makes his way back into his room. He definitely needs a shower after all his work, but since the shower is currently occupied (and no matter the fact that he’s seen Cas nearly naked before, he _can’t_ think about how he looks right now, or entertain the fantasy of joining him), Dean may as well get some other stuff done.

His laptop is charging by the bed, so he unplugs it and sets it up on his old desk, pulling up the file that contains his manuscript. This is his master copy – religiously backed up onto several different USB sticks and kept securely online as well, just to be safe. There are lots of different copies floating around his apartment, at different stages of editing and rewriting, all covered in scribbles of red pen, but every single change that he makes inevitably goes into his working copy. It’s his first proper novel, so it’s by no means perfect, but Dean would like to think that it’s starting to get there, what with all his hard work.

It’s changed a lot since he first time he tentatively asked Castiel to read it and was rejected, due to his boss’s busy schedule and the fact that, really, Dean is just an assistant. Not an author, not even an editor or a publisher. Just an assistant. But he didn’t let that rejection dampen his spirits, and he’s still been working on it whenever he feels the need or has a new spark of inspiration.

Today, he figures he may as well try and figure out what to do with one of his minor characters. They weren’t meant to be a big deal at all, but as soon as he’d introduced them to his main character, they’d taken over, as characters are wont to do. Despite Dean’s best attempts to wrestle them back into the storyline he’d originally been pursuing, it hadn’t worked, and now there’s something weird about the last third of the story.

It’s the fault of the one character, he knows. They weren’t supposed to fall in love with the main character, and yet here Dean is, with the rebellious whims of a fictional man screwing up his plot and motivations.

He just doesn’t know what to do about it.

He’s tried. God, has he tried to figure out how to fix it, to pull it all back to where it’s supposed to be. But he has no outside eye, no-one he trusts who will read it. So it just keeps fighting him.

Dean is still idly tapping away at his laptop, making notes on possible ways that he could adjust the narrative arc, when he hears footsteps behind him. When he turns to look, it’s somewhat difficult to stop his mouth from falling open just a little.

Cas’s hair is sticking up in damp spikes across his head, and he’s dressed in a pair of his own jeans, as well as one of Dean’s AC/DC t-shirts. He’s shaved, though there’s still a hint of stubble left around his jawline, and he looks laid-back and relaxed and stunning and it’s kind of taking Dean’s breath away. Sure, Castiel cuts a fine figure in a suit – Dean definitely knows that, from all the hours that he’s spent around the man at work. But this Cas? With the bare feet and the fitted jeans and the damp lock of hair that flops over his forehead, not to mention wearing _Dean’s own t-shirt_?

It’s only when Cas starts to give him an odd look at Dean realises he’s staring, and he promptly closes his mouth. “Good shower?” he asks, turning a little more in his seat. Cas looks past him to the open laptop, cursor blinking at the end of the last note Dean wrote.

“Very,” he answers, somewhat absentmindedly, stepping closer and peering over Dean’s shoulder at the screen. “What are you working on?”

As an editor, Cas apparently has an uncanny ability to sniff out half-baked manuscripts in need of an expert eye. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, then tabs over to the document holding his story. All ninety-three thousand, seven hundred and eighty-six words of it, to be exact, though it’s shortly going to become a lot less if he has to completely reimagine the ending.

“Just a stupid story,” he mutters, tilting his laptop so that Cas can see. “The ending is really fucking with me. When did fictional characters gain the ability to become sentient and act independently of me? It’s bullshit.”

The corners of Cas’s mouth pull up into an amused smile, and he leans closer, his gaze moving rapidly over the words on the page. The silence stretches out for so long that Dean raises an eyebrow and prods Castiel gently in the shoulder. “Should I leave you two alone, or?...”

“Shh, Dean,” Cas whispers, putting one hand over Dean’s mouth to quiet him. “I’m reading.”

“Personal space, Cas,” Dean grumbles, but his words are muffled by Castiel’s palm. In the end, he just bats the hand away and stands up from the chair. “Fine, man, read all you want. I’m gonna go shower, okay?”

“Mmhm,” is all Dean gets in return as Cas shifts to take up what had been Dean’s spot on the chair. It’s obviously all that he’s going to get right now – Dean’s seen him when he gets like this. He’s in work mode, completely absorbed by the story, picking it apart with his analytical mind. He may as well get some stuff done while Cas reads, since there’ll be no reaching him until he decides he’s done, so Dean grabs some clothes to change into and heads for the bathroom.

There’s still the last remnants of steam lingering in the corners of the bathroom, and the faintest smell of watermelon. It proves to be somewhat distracting as Dean strips off and starts the shower – Castiel invades his thoughts, no matter what he does to try and avoid it. Why the fuck is this happening?

He growls and tries to shove those thoughts down to the furthest depths of his mind as he scrubs himself clean of sweat and dust. It works to an extent, though he still has to redirect himself every now and again. Overall, though, the shower helps to calm his overactive thoughts. It’s just one more night of pretending, hopefully, and then tomorrow they’ll be returning to New York and a normal life. Dean will be an editor, they’ll go their separate ways – though hopefully they can stay friends.

He wonders what Cas thinks of his manuscript.

Eventually, Dean’s skin starts to prune, and he shuts the water off. It doesn’t take long to towel himself off, and he figures he should shave as well, since his facial hair is beginning to get a little long, and he should probably be somewhat presentable tonight. He still leaves himself with some stubble, though – having a completely smooth face just feels too damn weird. By the time he’s ready to leave the bathroom, he’s clean, he’s shaved, and he’s dressed similarly to Cas, with a nice pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

Castiel still hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the laptop, but at least he looks up when Dean enters. That’s a good sign – he won’t be having to deal with a completely unresponsive fiancé, or a snappy one, if it gets too late and he has to pull Cas away from his reading. Which might have to happen soon, he realizes, when he checks the time. It’s nearly five, and people will be arriving soon. “You still reading, there, or are you back with us?”

An unimpressed eyebrow raise is the only immediate response that Dean receives. “Would you like my opinion on it or not, Dean?” There’s a teasing lilt to Castiel’s voice, and the spark in his eyes tells Dean that he’s somewhat joking, but he still sobers up. Cas’s opinion means a hell of a lot to him, and it’s amazing that he’s finally reading Dean’s manuscript, after turning him away at his first attempt.

“I would,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and folding his hands in his lap. So many hours of work have gone into that manuscript. His chest feels too tight, his throat too dry.

Cas swivels in the chair to face him. His editor persona looks out of place in Dean’s band t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but somehow he can still make Dean nervous. The silence stretches on long enough for Dean’s confidence to begin to waver as Cas seems to ponder his feedback and his choice of words.

“Obviously I couldn’t read the whole thing, but I took a quick look at the ending, and you were right about it. It feels off, like you’re trying to force it into a shape that isn’t coming naturally. Why didn’t you write that the two main characters ended up falling in love?”

_Two_ main characters? “There’s only one main character, and when I was planning, I—“

Castiel holds up a hand to cut Dean off, his brows creasing into a frown. “Dean, this is my _job_ , and I can tell you that your two main characters need to end up together. That’s where the story is going, can’t you see? Fighting it is skewing everything.” He smiles and reaches a hand out to close the laptop, standing up from the desk chair.

“Trust me, Dean. And trust them. Let it happen.”

But that wasn’t how the book was supposed to end. They helped each other, succeeded, and then went their separate ways. That was always the plan, ever since the beginning, and Dean had resolved to stick to it even when his characters began to take on lives of their own.

But maybe Cas has a point. Things change. Situations, stories, _people_ , they all change.

Voices filter in through Dean’s half-open bedroom window, carried in on the breeze from the front step down below. People. Guests. Cas is still watching him, his head tilted a little to the side, as though he’s concerned. There’s no reason to be – Dean is just thinking – and the expression clears when Dean smiles up at him.

“Yeah, okay,” he breathes, standing up from his spot on the bed. “I can do that.”

He takes Cas’s hand, and they share a private, soft smile before John’s voice calls up the stairs, summoning them down to the party.

“I liked it, though, Dean,” Cas whispers, as though it’s a secret, fragile and precious and something just for the two of them. When Dean looks at him, he seems vibrant, radiant, his blue eyes wide and full of light. Dean can’t help the brilliance of his own grin.

Whether it’s because of the news that Cas liked his work, or some other reason entirely, he’s not sure.

He feels like he’s walking on air as they make their way down to the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or kudos if you liked it or want to motivate me into writing new chapters faster, and come find me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Very sorry about the long wait, I've been busy with my Pinefest and will likely continue to be for a few more weeks. I got another chapter of this done, though! And guys. I'm so happy with it. Finally living up to that Explicit rating ;) Thank you to everyone who has been commenting on this story, it's really helped my motivation, and I love and appreciate you guys more than you know.
> 
> Thank you again to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope), who tore this apart and made me rewrite it and is the reason that the end result is so fantastic.
> 
> Enjoy.

While he’s definitely feeling more comfortable around the Winchesters now, after having spent the last two days with them, Castiel is glad that he’s not going into these uncharted waters alone. Socialising with strangers simply for the sake of socialising, without some kind of end or work-related goal, is new territory for him, and having Dean by his side is hugely comforting.

His assistant has always been the one who’s good with people – making small talk, feigning interest in their lives, things like that. Castiel has gotten better at it, certainly, since he’s been forced to work on his ‘people skills’ the last couple of days, but being around a lot of people, all of whom think he’s Dean’s fiancé, is going to be a little overwhelming.

Luckily, he has Dean; the steady pressure of his hand, their intertwined fingers, his warm presence by Castiel’s side. It feels normal, now. They’ve supported each other this far through the experience, they can get themselves a little further through this. One more evening, and then they’re home free, and they can return to New York where the only person they have to fool is Victor Henriksen. Surely that’ll be easier than pretending to be engaged around Dean’s family, right?

“How you doin’, Cas?” Dean asks as they pause at the bottom of the stairs. Castiel is so caught up in his own head that he keeps walking, and Dean has to gently reel him back from his trajectory towards the backyard with their joined hands. He blinks; Dean’s smile is one of amusement. “You with me here, dude? Gonna be alright with the party?”

 _Will_ he be alright? He’s made it this far, but there are going to be _so many_ people here, so many people who know Dean far better than Castiel knows him. How is he going to be able to fool them all?

“Cas, look at me,” Dean says – his quiet, insistent tone manages to get Castiel’s attention properly this time. He shakes his head slightly, trying to focus, as Dean continues. “We’re gonna be fine, okay? It’s no different to being around my family. Just be yourself. It’s just one more night, and then tomorrow, you… you never have to see any of them ever again, okay?”

And while that should feel like a relief, the lifted burden of not having to pretend or agonise over socialising or making the wrong moves… it doesn’t. Instead, something twists behind his sternum. Castiel swallows, then nods, trying to steady himself. “Of course, Dean. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

Dean still looks as though he isn’t quite sure, his gaze flicking back and forth between Castiel’s eyes, searching. Whatever it is he’s looking for, though, he must not find it, because after a few seconds he straightens up and gives a reasonably convincing smile. “Alright, then. Ready?”

There’s no other option. He can’t retreat upstairs, since the party is partially _for_ them. He also can’t just hide behind Dean for the whole evening, if he’s meant to come across as someone with the ability to socialise like a normal human being. As much as he wishes he could do either thing, he _can’t_ , so Castiel gives Dean his most convincing smile in return. “Ready,” he confirms. Dean’s hand is warm in his, a small point of contact that helps to ground him and remind him that he’s not alone. He can survive tonight, and then tomorrow he can return to his own world, where he doesn’t have to bear the weight of lying to the people Dean loves most in the world. Instead, they only have to pretend for Henriksen.

Just one more night.

Dean squeezes his hand as Castiel takes a deep breath, and then they head out to the party together.

 

“Do you prefer Castiel, or ‘the dragon’? We’ve heard it both ways.”

Castiel had thought that the party had been going well. The guests seemed mildly surprised whenever Dean introduced him as his fiancé, but took it in their stride and were happy to ask Castiel about himself, how they met, what work is like. He’d just been starting to let down his guard and relax when a group of Dean and Sam’s friends arrived – and apparently, he has a pre-existing reputation with these people

Castiel tries not to grind his teeth as the mulleted man who spoke elbows Dean in the ribs. His fiancé – _assistant_ , he reminds himself – is currently doing his best impression of an over-ripe tomato, and his hissed, “ _shut up, Ash,”_ is not exactly subtle. Castiel knows he isn’t the kindest or most considerate boss, but the _dragon_? Really?

“ _Castiel_ , if you wouldn’t mind,” he replies in his most level tone, gripping his beer glass hard enough to be impressed by the structural integrity of the glass. “I was not aware that I was referred to in my office by any other name.”

It hadn’t seemed possible, but Dean cringes even harder where he’s standing next to Castiel, looking anywhere but at his fiancé-slash-boss. Ash, however, seems largely unaware of the damage that he’s caused. He’s already moved on, regaling Jo with tales of a crotchety, mean programming professor he had at college while she shifts uncomfortably. Castiel’s irritation and hurt is obvious, then.

Right now, Castiel wants out of this situation. He doesn’t just want to leave without an excuse, though, so he lifts his glass to his lips and drains the rest of his beer in one long swallow. “I’m getting a refill,” he mutters to no-one in particular, turning on his heel and leaving the small group. Thankfully, there’s no-one else near the keg. That should leave him a little time alone to nurse his wounded ego and hurt feelings.

It’s nothing new to know that he hasn’t exactly been the best boss, but the knowledge that his employees call him the ‘dragon’ behind his back is upsetting, he won’t lie. Castiel grits his teeth as he refills his glass from the keg, but when someone touches him on the shoulder, he jumps, narrowly missing spilling beer on his shoes.

Just in case it’s someone he doesn’t know, Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath and calm himself before he turns around. There’s no use ruining the good impression he’s been trying to make on Dean’s family and friends just because he can’t control his emotions.

But it’s not a stranger. It’s Dean, gaze downcast, shuffling from foot to foot and turning his glass anxiously between his palms. Castiel sets his jaw and raises an eyebrow. “Did you want something, Dean?” he asks, though he somewhat regrets the coldness of his tone when he sees Dean flinch. “Just because we’re engaged doesn’t mean we have to be joined at the hip.”

Dean winces and looks over his shoulder to where his friends are still standing around and talking. “Come on, Cas,” he says, turning back towards Castiel with a somewhat guilty expression. “We didn’t mean it in a malicious way. You’ve gotta admit that sometimes you do act like a dragon at work. You hole up in your cave all day, sometimes you breathe fire at people, hell, your trench coat even looks –“ He trails off as Castiel pins him with a glare. He’s the boss, damn it, he should be treated with more respect than this, not nicknamed and gossiped about.

“Right, and you thought it fitting to share this fun nickname with your friends and family too?” Do Mary and John and Sam know about this? Castiel clenches his jaw and fights back the urge to push past Dean and retreat back upstairs, away from judgemental, cruel eyes.

From Dean’s downcast expression, he can tell that his assistant feels terrible about the situation. “Cas, I’m sorry, honestly. It was just a joke, we didn’t think it would upset you.”

And if he’d found out about it a week ago, it wouldn’t have upset him. He would have issued stern warnings to any perpetrators and shut it down, but he likely wouldn’t have given it much consideration. Now, though… Now that he’s spent time with Dean, that he’s gotten to know the man beyond a professional relationship and even developed a friendship with him… the knowledge that Dean took part in this nicknaming behind his back and even told his friends and family about it really _hurts_. It feels like a betrayal.

“Well, you did,” he replies, his voice cracking just slightly as he looks away. Dean makes a small, pained sound, and then there’s a hand touching his elbow, ever so gently. Reluctantly, Castiel lifts his gaze again to meet Dean’s.

“Cas. Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told my friends about it, it was a really shitty thing to do. I shouldn’t have even called you that in the first place. As soon as we get back to the office, I’ll nix it, I promise.”

Dean’s words are sincere, his eyes wide and honest and his grip gentle on Castiel’s elbow. He means it – _really_ means it. For Castiel to stay mad about this would just be stubborn and petty. He needs to let this go, even despite the small pang of hurt that still remains in the wake of the apology. Slowly, he forces himself to exhale, then forces a small smile. “I appreciate your apology, Dean,” he murmurs.

For a few moments, as Dean searches his gaze, trying to gauge if Castiel is serious about accepting his apology, it’s as though they’re the only two who exist. There’s no party going on around them, no guests watching or whispering. There’s just Dean and his green eyes and his hand on Cas’s bare elbow.

Whatever Dean sees in Castiel’s gaze must be enough for him, because he gives a small, hesitant smile that widens just a little when Castiel doesn’t push him away. “Are we okay?” Dean asks, his fingers curling around Castiel’s elbow just a little more.

There’s no way that he could ever hold a grudge against Dean.

“Of course,” he replies, feeling his lips pull up into a small smile. Dean beams, and his hand slides down to Castiel’s, shyly twining their fingers together. It’s a small point of contact, but it melts away the rest of Castiel’s unhappiness, and he gives Dean’s hand a squeeze. Together, they make their way back to the little group, where Ash apologises for his insensitivity (with a little prompting from Jo in the form of a pinch to his arm).

Once Dean’s friends no longer see Castiel as a boss but a _fiancé_ , things relax a little, and Cas finds himself smiling more often than not as they talk and tell stories and tease each other in good-natured ways.

The sun is just sinking below the horizon when Castiel sees Dean returning to him from across the backyard, lit by strings of lights hung up from the deck to the trees at the far end. Dean is washed in soft russet and gold, tongue peeking out from between his lips in concentration as he navigates the guests while trying to keep his two plastic plates balanced on his hands.

Castiel is distracted for a few seconds, and misses the end of the story that one of Dean’s friends is telling about Jo’s college escapades. He only jolts back to reality when the rest of the people around him laugh. Dean stops by his side and hands him a plate of food – piled high with meat and salads and potatoes, all of which smell amazing.

“Did I miss anything?” his fiancé asks as he hands over a fork and then starts digging into his own dinner. Castiel takes a moment to think, still somewhat struck by how _green_ Dean’s eyes are in the sunset light. “Nothing important, to my recollection,” he muses as he spears a cube of fried potato with his fork. “I did enjoy hearing Sam’s story about how you fell out of the oak tree and broke your arm while pretending to be a superhero.”

The shade of red that colours Dean’s cheeks is almost vivid enough to rival that of the sunset-washed sky, and he scowls endearingly down at his food. “Bet he didn’t tell you about how Bobby’s dog chewed the head off his GI Joe and he spent the rest of the day following Old Major around in the hopes that he’d shit it out,” Dean mutters – Sam must have the hearing of a bat, because the story receives a squawked “Dean!” and a chorus of laughter from the group. Castiel grins and bumps his shoulder lightly against Dean’s as he pops the cube of potato into his mouth. He’s more than content to eat his dinner and watch in amusement as the two Winchesters bicker.

 

The food is almost all gone when Mary steps up onto the deck. Instead of gaining everyone’s attention with a knife and a flute of champagne, as Castiel is accustomed to, she just hollers for everyone’s attention at the top of her lungs, and the partygoers gradually fall silent. They turn to look, Dean still by Castiel’s side, his fiancé bright-eyed and smiling. The gentle flush on his cheeks betrays his tipsiness, though he’s not properly drunk, not yet.

“I’m sure you all know that tonight’s party is in celebration of Sam’s graduation,” Mary begins, beaming at her youngest son, who has definitely more than a few drinks under his belt, and sways on the spot with a grin as a few of the people around him clap him on the back. “Since I think the only thing he’s good for right now is some very bad karaoke,” she continues, getting a laugh from the gathered crowd, “I won’t bring him up here to make a speech. We’re very proud of him, though, and hope that he succeeds in his pursuit of studying law. John and I are very proud parents, now with two very grown up boys.”

And with that, her gaze falls on Castiel and Dean. Castiel feels his heart sink, guilt curdling in his stomach. He thinks he can tell what is coming next.

“With that said, tonight’s party is also serving to congratulate my son, Dean, on his engagement to Castiel.” Mary gestures to the banner above her, which reads ‘Congratulations Sam’ in big letters, with ‘(and Dean + Cas)’ squeezed in with a smaller font at the end. “May you live long and happy lives together, and may we find out about the wedding details earlier than we found out about the engagement itself. A little warning would be great next time, sweetheart.”

The crowd laughs and applauds, and Castiel wants to sink into the ground and have it swallow him whole. Mary’s words were lovely, as are the shouts of “Congratulations!” that come from various directions, but their genuine happiness at the news and the prospect of the marriage only makes it worse. He hadn’t considered this as an outcome when he first pulled Dean into this charade with him – feelings were never meant to be part of the equation. And while he wants to savour this moment, wrap himself in the excitement and happiness and pride until he’s drowning in it, it’s tempered by the knowledge that it’s all _fake._

When Castiel looks up at Dean, though, he doesn’t see guilt, or regret.

Instead, Dean’s gaze is soft and fond, something unreadable in those beautiful green eyes as Dean slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him a little closer. If there’s more to what Mary says, Castiel doesn’t hear it; he’s too busy caught up in Dean, and he swears he can feel the press of Dean’s engagement ring against his shoulder.

After Mary’s speech, the mood of the party changes. Most of the food is gone, with only a few desserts remaining on the table, and some of the guests slowly begin to trickle away. They leave in twos and threes, saying goodbye and wishing Dean and Castiel luck with their marriage – Castiel forces himself to smile and nod politely despite the twist in his stomach. Eventually, it’s only the closest friends and family who remain, aside from Dean’s cousins, who made themselves scarce as soon as the beer and food ran out. They hadn’t been particularly nice anyway, and Castiel is more than happy to see them go.

The group of Dean and Sam’s friends that he’d been talking to earlier remain, and he chats to Jo for a while as he watches Sam, Dean and Ash try to set up a TV and karaoke machine on the other end of the deck. It looks like Dean is mostly there to run damage control on Sam, while Ash is the one actually getting everything working. Once they get it set up, arguments over songs ensue, and Sam must pull the ‘guest of honour’ card, because soon he’s grabbing the microphone off Jo.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to learn that Sam is quite drunk, and _very_ bad at karaoke.

Most of those who remain have either known Sam long enough to have built up a tolerance for his lack of tune and overabundance of enthusiasm – or are tipsy enough not to care. While Dean grew accustomed to it long ago, Castiel hasn’t had enough to drink to endure the very off-key rendition of what he’s told is Lady Gaga’s ‘Bad Romance.’ He can’t help but feel relieved when Ellen and Jody take over the microphones.

Castiel and Dean are standing with Jo, Ash and a couple of other friends of Dean and Sam’s when Sam returns to the group, looking very proud of himself – though the way he wobbles on his long legs is a little concerning. “Did you see me, guys?” Sam crows, leaning heavily against the shoulder of a brunette girl. “I was so good. So fucking good. Screw law, I should start a band.”

It’s almost hard to think of a worse career for Sam, but Jo, who is nearing the same level of drunkenness, doesn’t share Castiel’s opinion. “So good, Sam!” she shouts, far too loudly considering how close they’re all standing. Castiel isn’t sure that he has enough alcohol to deal with this, although it is a little amusing. He can certainly feel Dean trying not to laugh.

Jo is still running with the idea of starting a band, her and Sam egging each other on until she’s flailing her arms wildly, and one of her hands manages to catch Ash’s drink. Almost as if in slow motion, Castiel sees the glass tip, beer sloshing over the rim before Ash can save it and splashing over Castiel’s borrowed t-shirt.

“What the fuck, Jo!” Dean exclaims, as Castiel grimaces at the cold stickiness that’s seeping through to his skin. “That’s my fucking shirt, man!” How valiant of Dean, to be more upset over the state of his borrowed t-shirt than the fact that Castiel has just had half a drink dumped on him. He suppresses a snort and pulls at the clinging fabric. “I’m sure it will be fine, Dean. And so will I, thank you for asking,” he says wryly.

The comment earns him an unimpressed eyebrow raise from his fiancé, though the corners of Dean’s mouth tick up a little at the same time, so Castiel counts that as a win.

“If it’s not fine, Jo’s buying me a new one, that’s for sure,” Dean declares, closing one hand around Castiel’s wrist as Jo splutters indignantly – though her drunkenness makes her words somewhat difficult to decipher. “Come on,” Dean tells him, and Castiel doesn’t resist when Dean tugs him gently in the direction of the house. “We’ll get you cleaned up and find you another shirt while I put that one in the wash, okay?”

It’s much quieter inside the house – they can still hear the sounds of talking and laughter and the godawful karaoke machine, but they’re muted now, and grow more so with every step he and Dean take up the stairs to the second floor. He finds himself being pulled into the bathroom, Dean letting go of his wrist. Dean’s hands go almost immediately to the hem of Castiel’s t-shirt, and he feels his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “Dean, what—“

“Shh, Cas, I gotta make sure the beer isn’t gonna stain it, work with me here.”

Dean is single-mindedly tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt, trying to pull it up and off despite the fact that Castiel’s arms are still in the way. It’s evident that he’s not going to stop until he gets the t-shirt off, so Castiel obligingly lifts his arms above his head, an amused smile curling his lips as Dean pulls it all the way off.

And then Dean freezes in place, and Castiel’s smile slowly falls, confusion replacing amusement. “Dean?” he asks slowly. His fiancé’s gaze flicks up to his, then refocuses on his chest.

Dean lifts his free hand, and when it grazes lightly across Castiel’s skin, it feels like pure electricity. He shivers, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The bathroom feels too small.

“You have a tattoo,” Dean murmurs, and Castiel blinks in surprise, suddenly realising what Dean’s fingertips are tracing. He’d figured that Dean had seen it when they’d run into each other in the hotel bathroom, but it’s understandable that Dean hadn’t really been looking too closely at Castiel’s chest in that situation. Besides, he got it a while ago, just after he’d moved to America. The lines aren’t as bold and defined as they once were.

It’s a small line of text across the bottom of his ribs, written in Russian characters in his own handwriting. It reads: ‘Глаза боятся, а руки делают,’ and he uses it to remind himself how far he has come, and how much he has yet to achieve. Dean’s fingers skim lightly over his inked skin, tracing the scrawl of the letters. “What does it mean?” he asks, his voice pitched low and husky, and Castiel has to bite his lip for a moment before he can respond.

“It says _Glaza boyatsya, a ruki delayut_ – roughly translating to… ‘you never know what you can do until you try.’”

Somehow, here in this moment, the words carry their meaning in a different way to when he’d had them inked onto his skin, newly arrived in New York. They feel heavy, weighted.

Dean is still looking at his tattoo, his lips barely moving around words that Castiel can’t quite interpret.

Castiel can hardly breathe as Dean’s hand slowly slides up his bare chest to rest on his shoulder, and he swallows as Dean glances up, green eyes veiled by dark lashes. They’re so close that it feels as though there’s hardly any air between them.

As if it’s in slow motion, Castiel sees Dean’s tongue dart out to wet his lips – he parts his own instinctively, completely fixated on Dean.

The soft sound he makes when Dean leans forward and presses his lips to Castiel’s is completely involuntary. He couldn't have stopped it if he tried. Dean’s lips are soft against his own, and he tastes like beer and pie. It feels so different to the kiss they shared at the airport, the kiss utilized solely as a distraction, as a means to an end.

This kiss is _real_. It’s not for show. It’s just for them.

Dean utters a soft sound against Castiel’s mouth as his other hand comes up to curl around the back of his neck, and Cas settles his hands on Dean’s hips in an instinctive response. When Dean pulls him closer and swipes his tongue across the seam of Castiel’s lips, he parts them willingly and slides his hands up under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. His skin is warm and smooth, and Castiel groans quietly as he splays his fingers over Dean’s abdomen, then slides his hands around to the small of Dean’s back to pull them closer together.

The kiss is slow and languid, the two of them simply taking some time to explore each other with fingers and lips and tongue. Castiel greedily catalogues every sound that Dean makes, from the breathy whimpers to the quiet moans, and when they finally break apart for air, the image of Dean with pink lips and bright, hooded eyes is one that he knows he will remember forever.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean breathes, and the corners of his lips tick up into a smile. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed from alcohol and kissing. “Where’s _that_ been hiding for the past two years?”

“I try not to make a habit of kissing my assistants, Dean,” Castiel murmurs in response – they’re still close enough that their noses are nearly brushing. “But, somehow… I can’t seem to help myself around you.” He already knows just how dangerous his situation is, how far he’s already fallen for Dean. But at this point… there’s no way he can resist.

And it seems like Dean knows that, too.

Dean’s hand tightens on the back of his neck, and Castiel finds himself pulled in for another kiss. While the previous one had been slow, careful, this time Dean wastes no time in nipping at Cas’s bottom lip and licking into his mouth. It’s fireworks and molten steel running through his veins, and he groans against Dean’s mouth. He wants to get his hands on Dean’s skin properly, wants to map out the planes of his body with fingers and lips. Dean puts up no protest as Castiel slides his hands up, taking the t-shirt with them, and they break the kiss long enough for Castiel to pull the t-shirt completely off and toss it aside.

The feeling of Dean’s bare skin against his own isn’t quite as good as it could be if they were both completely naked, but it’s a very near thing.

As wonderful as kissing Dean is, after a few minutes of running his hands over Dean’s skin and pressing him up against the edge of the counter as they kiss, Castiel is itching for more. He blames it on the slight edge of alcohol still in his system – he’s not as tipsy as Dean is right now, but he’s had enough to drink to dull his inhibitions a little, which is why he mumbles, “We should take this to the bedroom,” against the curve of Dean’s throat.

A shiver rolls through him as Dean’s breath hitches. “Definitely,” Dean whispers into the air, even as he tips his head back to give Castiel more room. It distracts him for a few seconds, since he can’t resist the beautiful column on Dean’s throat and _has_ to press a series of kisses into that freckled skin. He only pulls back when Dean chuckles and tugs lightly on his hair. “Bedroom, Cas? Or are you gonna ravish me right here against the bathroom sink?”

Castiel is loathe to stop kissing Dean, but staying in the bathroom probably isn’t the best idea. “Bedroom,” he confirms, stepping back but taking Dean’s hands in his. He pulls his fiancé with him as he backs out of the bathroom and across the hall to Dean’s room. From the muted sounds emanating from downstairs, the party is still going strong, even though it’s getting late now. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll be interrupted.

Even so, he makes sure that the bedroom door is closed securely behind them before he returns his attention to Dean.

His fiancé is sprawled back on top of the bed, propped up on his elbows with his lips curled up into a half-smile. He looks relaxed and at ease, watching Castiel with hooded eyes, and he can’t help the curl of heat that simmers low in his gut at the sight. God, Dean is so stunning.

“You gonna stand there and watch some more, or are you gonna come over here and kiss me?”

Dean’s half-smile widens, and a chuckle rumbles up from Castiel’s chest, unbidden. _There’s_ his mouthy assistant. “I definitely intend to do more than watch,” he reassures Dean, toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside before crossing over towards the bed in long, measured strides. Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s breath hitches ever so slightly as he lowers himself onto the bed, and he certainly doesn’t miss the way that Dean splays those bowed legs wider to make room for him.

Hands slide over his bare shoulders as he settles against Dean, thighs loosely bracketing Castiel’s hips and long lashes fluttering in the dim light as Dean grins up at him. “Hey there,” he whispers, and Castiel smiles. Dean’s cheek is soft under his palm, and he brushes a thumb over the arch of his cheekbone. “Hey yourself,” Castiel whispers in return.

Dean pulls him down for another kiss, and then it’s just sensation, roaming hands and lips pressed against skin and soft groans and gasps that steal away into the warm air between kisses. There’s no way of knowing how much time passes like this, making out like a pair of teenagers, but at some point Dean’s deft fingers unbutton Castiel’s jeans, and all of a sudden there are hands sliding beneath the waistband and gripping his ass over the fabric of his boxer briefs.

The touch coaxes Castiel’s hips into rutting down, and he groans at the friction that it provides for the erection that has, until now, gone unattended. It seems as though he’s not the only one, though – an answering moan falls from Dean’s lips, and there’s a definite bulge in the denim of his jeans. Castiel smirks against Dean’s mouth and grinds down against his fiancé with more purpose this time. Dean’s breathy moan and the rocking of his hips is a better response than he could have ever imagined. _This_ is better than he could have ever imagined.

For a while, the new friction is enough as they rut against each other, soft moans muffled by kisses, but Castiel itches to take Dean apart, to see just how beautiful his fiancé can be, and just how good he can make Dean feel. It takes a little bit of one-handed fumbling to get his jeans open, but the deep, wrecked moan that rumbles up from Dean’s chest when Castiel gets a hand around his cock is more than worth it.

Castiel smears his thumb through the precome gathering at the head of Dean’s cock and uses it to slick his grip; this time, a firm stroke elicits a breathy gasp and a buck of Dean’s hips. “Cas,” he groans, and Castiel silences it with a firm kiss that he has to break away from when Dean snakes a hand beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Having Dean’s warm, calloused hand around his cock feels absolutely amazing, and Castiel would be more than happy to keep it at this. It’s more than he’d ever hoped for, and Dean is breath-taking in his pleasure – even more so when they pause to shed jeans and underwear. Dean is all warm, freckled skin, and Castiel fits between his bowlegs like he belongs there. If not for the liquid courage coursing through their veins and Jo’s wild gesticulations, Castiel would never have known how it feels to have so much of Dean pressed against him, or the amazing sounds he makes when Castiel twists his wrist just so.

When Dean presses a hand against his shoulder and pushes just a little, Castiel pauses, his brows drawing into a slight frown and his hand stilling. Below him, Dean’s chest heaves as he catches his breath, and he smiles in a flash of white teeth and crinkling eyes. “Keep that up and I’m gonna come, Cas,” he says, looping one arm around Castiel’s neck to pull him in for a soft kiss.

Castiel is still confused, and he frowns down at Dean. “You… _don’t_ want to come?”

Dean’s answering chuckle is light and breathless. “Trust me, Cas, I _do_. I just…” Here, he pauses, and it may be a trick of the low light, but his cheeks seem to flush a little darker. “There’s lube in the nightstand, y’know. Might even be a condom in there if we’re lucky.”

 _Oh_.

It feels like nothing else in the world exists as he kisses Dean again, so softly. Castiel feels Dean smile against his mouth in the moment before he pulls away, and he holds it close to his chest as he levers himself up and stretches over Dean to the nightstand – unwilling to part with too much of the skin-on-skin contact by standing up from the bed. While he’s rummaging around in the drawers, coming up with a condom that is still a few months away from expiration and still looking around for the lube, Dean decides to take advantage of Castiel’s position.

Castiel groans as Dean wraps his lips around the head of his cock and flicks his tongue over the slit. When he glances down, his fiancé is looking up at him, a wicked spark in his eyes and an expression that Castiel knows would be a smirk if his mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. It’s a bit of an awkward arrangement, but right now, they don’t care, and Castiel swears as Dean bobs his head a couple of times and digs fingers into his thighs. Considering he’s somewhat distracted, the fact that he manages to locate the bottle of lube at all is a minor miracle. His fingers clench around it as Dean takes him even deeper, his hips bucking of their own accord, and he moans when Dean pulls back with a wet _pop_.

The expression on Dean’s face is nothing short of smug as he shuffles back up the bed, and Castiel slides down to meet him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?” he growls, not giving Dean a chance to reply before he captures Dean’s mouth in a hard kiss, nipping at his bottom lip and licking into his mouth. From the low, needy sound that rumbles out of Dean’s chest, he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

There are other things at hand, though, need that burns brightly and incessantly in Castiel’s core. Dean watches with hooded eyes as he sits back, situated between Dean’s legs, and coats his fingers in lube.

The soft, broken sound that Dean makes when Castiel first eases his finger into him is one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. Dean’s lashes flutter, his throat a long, exposed line as he tips his head back, and Castiel folds forward to kiss over pale, freckled skin as he slides his finger all the way in.

It’s soft and slow, with Castiel pressing worshipful kisses into Dean’s skin and then his lips, swallowing every sound Dean makes as he stretches him open. _You’re so beautiful_ , he thinks, as he grazes his fingertips over Dean’s prostate and Dean shudders beneath him. “Please, Cas, please,” he’s whispering between kisses, hands clutching at Castiel’s shoulders, his back, sliding into his hair. Castiel has three fingers in him by now, pumping them into Dean slowly, carefully. “ _Please_ ,” Dean chokes out, and there’s no way he can wait any more.

“I’ve got you, Dean,” he whispers, kissing Dean slow and deep as he pulls his fingers out. It takes him a few seconds of fumbling to get the condom on, but then Castiel is settling back between Dean’s legs. He uses one hand to guide himself, and they both groan in unison as he bottoms out in a long, slow slide. Dean is hot and tight around him, and Castiel gives them both a moment to adjust – Dean has pressed his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder, and his breaths come in shuddering gulps. Castiel smooths a soothing hand along his side and waits for him to adjust, only moving when Dean asks him to.

He sets a slow pace to begin with, rocking his hips into Dean. Those perfect thighs feel amazing when they wrap around Castiel’s hips, and Castiel thrusts in just a little harder. He’s rewarded with a moan that falls from Dean’s lips, and he smiles as he picks up the pace. Dean responds beautifully, arching up into Castiel’s touches and clutching at his shoulders with strong hands. He’s so stunning that he wants to catalogue every single reaction of Dean’s, every gasp and moan and shudder, but there’s no way he could possibly do that, so he settles for making Dean feel as good as he possibly can in this moment.

Everything is sweat-damp skin and gasped-out moans as they move together in Dean’s bed. Castiel knows when he hits Dean’s prostate when Dean cries out and clenches around his cock, and makes an effort to aim for it more often. He keeps his thrusts slow – he doesn’t want to rush this – but puts some strength behind them. The way Dean bites his lip when Castiel sheathes himself deep and simply grinds into his ass is absolutely breathtaking, and he pauses between kisses to simply sit back and _watch_ Dean. He’s so expressive, so tactile, more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.

Dean is ruining him for anyone else, has been since before they fell into bed together.

Castiel can tell when Dean starts to get close to his orgasm, from the way he suddenly becomes so much more vocal. He begs with a litany of “please” and “Cas” and “ _fuck_ ” in that rough, fucked-out voice. Castiel kisses the words from his lips and fucks him harder, dropping a hand to his cock and stroking him loosely in time with his thrusts.

Dean comes with a cry of “ _Cas!_ ” as he spills over Castiel's hand and his own stomach, and Castiel is gone.

“я люблю тебя,” he whispers against Dean’s lips. “я люблю тебя, Dean.”  He falls over the edge with a soft gasp and the taste of those words on his tongue, out in the open now and never able to be revoked.

It takes them a little while to catch their breath, and when hands curl around his biceps, Castiel looks down to see the Dean with a crooked smile that he’s so accustomed to. The sex had been so soft, so vulnerable, and while there’s still a hint of that in Dean’s eyes, it still makes him blink.

“Goddamn, Cas,” Dean says with a grin, stretching up to steal one more kiss. Castiel can’t help but chuckle softly as he pulls out of Dean, carefully disposing of the used condom in the nearby trash can.

“Enjoy that, did you?” he teases as they both manoeuvre themselves under the covers, face to face with fingers barely brushing in the space between them.

Dean stretches, all lithe, moon-washed skin and bound muscle. His smile is sated and lazy, and his lips part around a yawn. Castiel wants to hold him close and fall asleep with him in his arms, every single night.

“Fuck, Cas, that was better than any one night stand I’ve had in _years_. If I’d known you were that good in bed, I would’ve done that ages ago.”

And just like that, all of Castiel’s post-coital warmth and happiness dissipates into nothingness.

A one night stand?

Was that all that was?

He feels cold all over, his brain fixed on those words and playing them over and over on loop, like a stuck record.

Dean seems oblivious to the effect of his words. He’s already pressing closer, tangling their legs together under the covers and tucking in against Castiel’s chest. Cas wraps an arm around his shoulders in a movement that almost feels mechanical – he doesn’t want Dean to know that anything is wrong. They just had fantastic sex, there shouldn’t _be_ anything wrong.

But there is. “Night, Cas,” Dean breathes out against his chest, and his heart sinks a little further even as it melts.

He can’t possibly do this.

He’s in love with Dean, he knows that now.

How will he be able to live out this farce, pretending to be engaged with Dean when there’s no way that Dean reciprocates his feelings?

It would be like carving out a piece of his heart with a blunt spoon every single fucking day. And there’s no knowing how long they’ll have to pretend for.

Castiel squeezes his eyes closed to try and stop the tears from falling, but one tracks its way down his cheek.

“Good night, Dean,” he whispers into the air, but Dean is already asleep.

 

Early the next morning, Castiel pens a note and packs up his belongings.

He presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead as he sleeps, then leaves the Winchester household on silent feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please don't hate me)
> 
> Глаза боятся, а руки делают = you never know wha you can do until you try  
> я люблю тебя = I love you
> 
> Comments and kudos make a lil writer very happy, and you should come check me out on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)! I love to chat, and occasionally do some writing over there.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good Christmas/holiday season and New Year!
> 
> This did not turn out looking like I'd originally planned, but that's okay! I'm very happy with the end result, and I hope you guys like it. I'll save the sappiness for the epilogue, since that's still to come, but wow. What a ride. Thank you, as always, to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope). And I guess this is kind of my early birthday present to myself (by two days, but I couldn't wait that long to share this with you guys).
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s mid-morning by the time Dean wakes; he’s a lazy mess of limbs and slow-firing synapses, still blissful and relaxed after last night.

And what a night it had been.

He smiles to himself and burrows his cheek into his pillow, closing his eyes against the sun that filters through the window and pools on the bed sheets, warm and inviting.

If he lets himself drift enough in that semi-conscious realm of being not quite asleep but also not awake, it’s almost as though he can relive it. The feeling of hands on his skin, of soft, chapped lips against his own, of Cas stretching him wide and lighting him up from the inside.

Dean groans softly, his lips curled up into a lazy half-smile.

It had been i _ncredible_ – better than he ever could have imagined. Cas is strong and soft and firm and gentle and knows how to touch Dean in all the right ways to make his body sing. His voice is like a caress, sending shivers down Dean’s spine and melting him into the mattress, and – fuck, he’s a sappy son of a bitch.

Still, he can’t help but smile into his pillow.

Because he thinks he’s finally worked out where he stands with Cas. How he feels about him.

The golden sunlight slants across the bed and sears into Dean’s retinas as he slits his eyes open – it’s warm, and gentle, and forgiving, but too much for Dean right now, and he throws his forearm across his eyes with a muffled sound of complaint. Slowly, slowly, his eyes adjust, and this time when he blinks his eyes open, unhurried, he’s able to keep them that way.

The bed beside him is empty, the covers still rumpled.

Dean’s brows draw down into a small frown, and he stretches a hand out into the cold space where Cas should be, where he fell asleep curled up against Dean, his arm around Dean’s shoulders and gentle breaths ruffling his hair.

Last night was the best Dean had slept in a long time, sated and happy and content and _safe_.

And now Cas is gone.

 _He probably hasn’t gone far_ , Dean reassures himself, and the panic that had been beginning to creep over his mind subsides. The last time Cas had disappeared like this, he’d only been downstairs. Hell, he’s probably already cooking breakfast with Dean’s mom, while Dean sleeps away their last day as a family.

That makes it easier to leave the comfortable warmth of the bed. It’s still not a perfect solution – the bed is _really_ comfortable, and it takes a little while to build up enough mental fortitude to leave – but eventually, he manages it.

Dean shoves the covers away as he sits up and swings his legs over the bed. His feet settle onto the floorboards, well-worn from years of childhood use, and he takes a second to rub the sleep from his eyes.

The thought of Cas downstairs, possibly cooking breakfast with his family or just sitting out on the deck again with a cup of coffee, rises to the forefront of his mind, and Dean smiles. It’s so perfectly domestic, and he wishes that they could stay here forever, that he had endless days and nights without interruption to find out who Castiel Novak really is, and what makes him tick.

But for now, he’ll just have to settle for this morning.

He opens his eyes, and his gaze falls on the empty space beside his duffel where Cas’s suitcase should be.

Dean goes cold, as though there’s freezing water sluicing through his veins.

Because Cas isn’t in his bedroom, and he isn’t downstairs with Mary, or even on the deck outside. His suitcase is gone, and that means that Cas is gone with it.

 _Really_ gone.

His stomach churns, and he can’t help the tiny, involuntary sound of grief that escapes from between shock-parted lips. Cas left. And Dean doesn’t understand what he did wrong, what he did to deserve Castiel leaving without any kind of warning or goodbye, especially after last night.

Fuck, he feels _numb_.

He’d been so sure, after last night, of how he felt about Cas. He’d been ready to tell him, or at least talk about it and try and locate the point where this stopped being a forced pretence, and started to become real. But Dean had been a stupid, _stupid_ fucking idiot for ever thinking that Cas felt the same way. He doesn’t know what the hell last night was to Cas, if it had been so easy for him to leave without saying goodbye, but it obviously hadn’t meant to him what it meant to Dean.

Very slowly, Dean folds forwards, rests his elbows on his knees, and puts his head in his hands.

The worn-smooth wood beneath his feet offers him no answers or resolutions, but he stares blankly at it anyway, barely able to process the gut-wrenching heartbreak without crumpling. There’s no way he can face his family right now, so he stays where he is until the individual floorboards blur together through a veil of unshed tears.

It’s impossible to determine how much time has passed before he hears a knock on the door.

“Dean? Cas?”

It’s Mary.

Dean wants to tell her to go away, to yell and scream until his voice gives out, but the words don’t form, and the muscles of his throat contract uselessly.

So he stays silent.

“Boys? Breakfast is downstairs, we wanted to have a proper meal before you leave.”  
  
Dean’s fingers shake as they curl into the short strands of his hair, his whole body trembling with the effort of keeping his grief bottled up inside him.

The door creaks open, and then the room is silent for a second, two, three – apart from the hitching of Dean’s breath as he struggles to maintain what tattered composure he has left. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed of his nudity right now.

All it takes is Mary’s soft, “Oh, honey,” for the levee to break.

Dean’s body shakes with the sobs that he’d been trying so hard to hold back, his fingers twisting into his hair with the anguish that floods every cell of his body. Distantly, he registers the feeling of Mary’s arms embracing him and pulling him in against her chest.

He turns his head and cries into her shoulder until he has nothing left to give, until the tears run out, leaving nothing but numb emptiness in their wake. Mary’s fingers card through his hair as she holds him close, pressing her lips to the top of his head and murmuring soothingly as though Dean is six years old again.

Eventually, the shaking of his limbs ceases, and he exhales raggedly against his mom’s tearstained blouse.

“He left, mom,” is all he can say, his voice jagged and raw with grief.

Her palm strokes along his back, slow and soothing. “I know, honey,” she says into his hair. “Do you want to put on some pants? And then we can talk, okay?”

So he does. Even though his bones feel heavy with pain and exhaustion and he wants nothing more than to go back to sleep forever, he forces himself to stand and pull on a pair of sweatpants from his duffel.

His heart aches at the empty space beside it. He’d always thought that books and movies were exaggerating this kind of heartbreak.

Now he knows they’re not.

Mary pats the bed beside her, her expression sad, and Dean crumples back against her side. He feels like a child again, wrapped in her arms after skinning his knee, except this hurts so much worse.

For a while, they just sit there together, Dean taking comfort in his mom’s presence as he tries to find the words.

None of the words he can find feel _right_ , so in the end he gives up. He opens his mouth and just talks, without care or moderation. Dean explains everything; the proposed deportation, the fake engagement, their meeting with Henriksen and how they’d brought up the trip to Stanford and then Lawrence.

He tells his mom how Cas is so much more than the cold, emotionless boss that he’d thought he was, how it was all just meant to be pretend.

And in the end, he finishes with,

“I’m in love with him, mom.”

There’s a long, drawn out silence. Dean’s throat hurts from crying and talking, and he swallows thickly, glancing up at Mary. She doesn’t look angry at being deceived, though – just thoughtful, and sorrowful. “And he left because he doesn’t feel the same way?” she asks finally.

Dean’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “I have no fuckin’ clue. He didn’t say anything before he left. I thought, after last night –“ he cuts himself off with a shake of his head, a lump rising in his throat. “He didn’t say anything,” he repeats. “He can’t feel the same way, there’s no way. He wouldn’t have just left like that.”

Mary hums quietly. “Did he say that in his note?”

_Note?_

“Note?” Dean asks, his brows pulling down into a confused frown. “What note?”

His mom blinks, and then she pulls away just slightly, twisting to gesture towards the nightstand on Cas’s side of the bed, closest to the door. There’s a sheet of notebook paper there, the white of it starkly contrasted against the dark ink of Cas’s handwriting. “That note,” she points out, somewhat redundantly since Dean’s gaze is already fixed on it.

A note.

Cas left him a note.

Dean scrambles across the bed in an unruly tangle of limbs and snatches up the sheet of paper. He knows that the tiny feeling of hope like hummingbird wings in his chest is foolish, but he can’t help himself, and his hands shake as his eyes skim frantically over the neat print of Cas’s handwriting.

 

Dean,

I am truly sorry for leaving without saying goodbye.

I thought that I could do this, but I can’t.

Before I return to Russia, I will make sure to secure you an editing job

and a publishing contract.

Give my love and thanks to your family.

я люблю тебя навсегда,

Castiel. 

 

He reads it again, and again, until the words all blur together.

Except for one.

Dean sets the note back down on the nightstand, carefully smoothing out the creases left by his too-tense grip, and slides the engagement ring off his finger. It hurts to look at, hurts like a knife twisting in his gut, but he forces himself not to think about the night Cas gave it to him and instead examines the engraving inside.

навсегда.

It’s the same as on the note.

The wings in his chest take flight as he reaches for his phone and opens the translation app he’d downloaded in a fit of boredom and curiosity. He hadn’t been able to get the right angle on his camera for the app to be able to translate an image of the inscription, but black-and-white, 2D words on paper?

It’s a piece of cake.

For several long seconds, Dean just stares at the photo of Cas’s Russian writing, and the English translation beneath.

“Dean?” His mom asks from behind him – he hasn’t said anything since he grabbed the note. “What does it say?”

It takes a few seconds for Dean to remember how to make his lungs work; a few more for his voice.

“I have to go back to New York.”

He’s never been so certain of anything in his life. Packing his suitcase, boarding the plane, clenching his trembling fists through the whole flight, his conviction never once wavers.

The detour to leave his suitcase in his apartment is necessary – he would rather not risk JFK’s lost and found – but as soon as he’s thrown it through the front door, he’s off again.

He shoves his way through the New York traffic, past businessmen and mothers carrying children and wide-eyed tourists, each with their own life, each following their own path and writing their own story.

Dean’s story is being written with every footstep, the threads of it weaving together and pulling tighter, tighter, the closer he gets. His heart pounds against his ribcage – with exertion or excitement, he’s not really sure – and he gulps in lungfuls of air like he’s only just learned to breathe.

For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester is writing his own story. He trusts himself, throwing his soul up into the stars and hoping, _hoping_ , that he’ll pull some magic down with him.

He could really use some magic right about now.

Because Dean Winchester has a _purpose_ , he has a _goal_ , and he’s not going to let stupid fate, the stupid _author_ , ruin it.

He’s writing his own fucking story.

And so he _runs_.

By the time he makes it to their office building, it’s not that late in the evening. Dean still holds out hope that Cas is still here, that he hasn’t done anything fucking stupid.

He wouldn’t put it past the man.

Dean gets a few concerned looks as he sprints towards the elevators, travelling in the opposite direction to the slow trickle of home-bound employees. He quickly scans their faces, but he can feel in his gut that none of them are Cas, and he’s right. Either he’s already left, or he’s still here.

It’s possible that Cas didn’t come back the office today at all, but Dean is pretty sure that he knows his boss. Cas isn’t the type to sit around idly. When he has an idea in his head, he’s fixated on it, and won’t just sit around thinking about it. No, he’ll be here, tying up loose ends. Emptying out his office and tendering his resignation.

Dean can’t let that happen.

When he bursts out of the elevator into the editing floor of Sandover Publishing, his co-workers stare at him as though they’ve seen a ghost. It’d be almost comical in any other situation, seeing mouths hanging open and conversations stuttering to a halt, but right now, Dean has no fucking clue why they’re all staring. He doesn’t have time for this shit.

“Where the fuck is Castiel Novak?” he asks, his voice carrying across the maze of cubicles in the vacant silence.

For a few seconds, no one responds. And then Andy – god, he loves Andy – pipes up, his face splitting into a grin. “You just missed him, Dean. He’s on his way up to Luke and Michael’s, you’d better hurry if you wanna get your man.”

And that’s all Dean needs to hear – he’s going to pointedly ignore that last part. He leaps back into the elevator just before the doors close, and jabs his finger repeatedly into the button for the top floor, as though that’ll help the elevator move faster. It doesn’t, but it makes Dean feel just a little better.

The elevator ride has to be the slowest minute Dean has ever experienced in his life. He just hopes that he’s not too late.

And when the doors slide open in front of him, he sees that he isn’t.

Because there’s Cas, his back to Dean, white sheet of paper gripped in one hand, the other raised to knock on the heavy wood of their bosses’ office door.

But he’s hesitating, he’s _hesitating_ , and Dean doesn’t think twice before throwing himself out of the elevator, because this is his fucking chance, damn it, and he won’t let Castiel slip through his fingers a second time.

“ _Cas!_ ”

All in all, there isn’t much to show in Castiel’s office, considering how long he’s worked here.

He knows that other people have photos, or trinkets, or even just a gradually accumulating lack of organisation that shows that yes, someone works here. This space belongs to someone.

Castiel’s office isn’t like that. He’s never really been one for sentimentality, or useless knickknacks, or clutter. When the day finally came to pack up his office, it would be easiest to do if he only kept the bare minimum, and so he never bothered to make it look _lived in_.

All his possessions sit in one lonely box in the middle of his desk.

It’s mostly stationery, things that he bought for himself because the office supplies were, in his eyes, inadequate. The last to go in are the few signed copies of books and manuscripts he kept in his office, from authors he admired and loved working with, authors who could reach up and touch the stars, who brought them back down and wove them into stories so that everybody could have just a fragment of that same magic.

Perhaps he’s a little sentimental.

Castiel sits at his old desk in his old office and stares at his meagre box of possessions so that he doesn’t have to look out the glass windows to the offices beyond, where the rest of the publishing company works on as though nothing has happened.

But they know.

Even though he hasn’t yet formally tendered his letter of resignation – it sits beside the box, awaiting his signature and a trip up to his bosses’ office – the whole office knows that he’s leaving. They’d known when he turned up in the afternoon wearing jeans and the t-shirt that Dean had been wearing last night, looking empty and isolated and devoid of any kind of emotion.

They know that he’s leaving, and they know that he’s broken up with Dean.

 _Not that it was ever a real relationship to begin with_ , he thinks bitterly, his heart twisting in his chest.

Castiel sits back and rubs his hands over his eyes, wishing (not for the first time) that he’d done something differently. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have fallen hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with Dean Winchester.

Surely not knowing the euphoria of love would be preferable to the agonizing ache of heartbreak.

No amount of wishing and regretting will change his situation, though. He just has to make the most of his situation. There’s no way that he can possibly stay in America, not when he knows he couldn’t even look at Dean without the knowledge that Dean simply doesn’t feel the same way. It would kill him to keep pretending, and though abandoning the life that he’s built in order to go back to Russia will hurt, it will hurt slightly less than the alternative.

His eyes ache, but he can’t cry.

Instead, Castiel reaches back into the box of his belongings. His fingers brush over the cover of a bound manuscript, and he pulls it out at random.

It’s the first thing he ever edited.

He’d been so damn _excited_ to finally be living his dream, working at the manuscript with dogged determination until it was as good as it could possibly be. The result had gone on to win several awards; Castiel was almost as proud of the book as its author, and his work put him on the map in the eyes of the higher-ups. It probably played a large part in how quickly he climbed the ranks.

To this day, it remains one of his favourite books. There’s a certain beauty in the hero’s redemption arc, and the quality of the writer’s prose is finer than the work of many acclaimed authors that he’s read. He knows every word almost by heart, and holding the manuscript is like reuniting with an old friend.

 _Dean could be that good one day_ , the rebellious part of his brain tells him unhelpfully.

Being an editor for a while would help him understand and strengthen his pitfalls, would hone his craft and let him find his niche. With a few years, Dean could be taking the world by storm.

Hopefully Castiel will be back in the US by that point, to be able to buy his work. If he can’t get a visa… he’ll just have to hope that he can get Dean’s books in Russia. He’s going to go far, Castiel can tell, and never finding out what Dean is truly capable of would be a travesty. His manuscript had held so much potential, despite his stubborn fixation on a determined ending.

 _Trust your characters_ , he’d told Dean. They know what they’re doing – the universe will bring them together or split them apart as it chooses. The author is merely the vessel of fate, subservient to the desires of the characters they have created.

Castiel had put his trust in fate, and in himself.

But theirs would not be a happy ending.

He shakes his head, scrubs a hand over his face, and refreshes his mental note to talk to Luke and Michael about getting Dean an editing job.

There’s nothing left to pack up in his office. There’s nothing keeping him tethered here. By rights, he should already be taking the elevator up to Michael and Luke’s office.

He’s not quite sure why he hasn’t, though he suspects that Dean’s office has something to do with it. Dean’s office, just past Castiel’s own, with his photos and souvenirs and the organized clutter that only the man himself can navigate. Dean’s office, which is so quintessentially _Dean_ that it hurts.

It hurts to look at. It hurt when he came in, pinned beneath watchful gazes and the heavy press of half-whispered gossip, and he knows that it will hurt even more when he leaves here for the last time.

It has to happen, though.

Castiel takes a deep breath, sets the manuscript back in the box, and pulls out a pen.

He signs the resignation letter with a heavy heart and none of his usual flourish. It goes into the box as well, which he then scoops up into his arms.

The empty walls watch on silently as Castiel Novak straightens his back, shifts his grip on the box, and strides out of his office.

Walking out through Dean’s office doesn’t hurt as much as he’d expected, but he grits his teeth at the way that all the other employees fall silent at the sight of him. They watch him while pretending that they aren’t, hiding slanted gazes and quick whispers behind hands or around cubicle dividers. He’s laid out, flayed bare, more vulnerable than he ever wanted to be.

And so he summons a little of that dragon steel from his nearly-depleted reserves and hardens his gaze as he walks past, lengthening his strides imperiously as though he’s wearing something more fitting for the situation than just a t-shirt and jeans. It does the trick, even in his more casual attire; the whispering stops, and the burning gazes slant away.

Castiel should feel some sense of satisfaction, but he just feels tired.

The box in his arms weighs him down as he shifts it onto one hip to press the button for the elevator, and he lets his posture give a little once the doors close behind him, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. The elevator ride feels far too quick – it’s not even a minute before the doors are sliding open again.

Empty corridor stretches out between him and the door to Luke and Michael’s office.

He’d rather not carry his box of possessions into the office with him when he tenders his resignation – he’d like to think he has a little more dignity than toting around the meagre scraps of his time here – so he sets it aside on the coffee table by the elevator. No one will take it, not up here.

And that leaves him staring down that office door, his letter of resignation weighing down his hand and his heart. Every step towards the end of the corridor feels like another shovelful of dirt on his grave, but he has no other choice. He sealed his own fate when he fell in love with Dean Winchester.

Still, when he reaches the door to Luke and Michael’s office, and raises his hand to knock… he can’t do it. As soon as he walks in there, it’s over. His career with Sandover is done. They may promise him _a_ job when he’s able to return to the US, but there’s no way they’d just be able to give Castiel _his_ job back.

This is truly the end.

His hand trembles where it’s raised, and he clenches it determinedly, ready to face the consequences.

But before he can bring it down, before he can knock—

“ _Cas!_ ”

He stops dead in his tracks, his fist freezing halfway to the door. Because he knows that voice. He knows that voice, and surely he’s hallucinating, because the owner of that voice can’t really be here—

Castiel lets his hand fall and turns, slowly, afraid of what he’ll find.

He’s not sure what he’s more afraid of; that it isn’t Dean, or that it _is_.

But he knows who he’ll find standing there even before he’s properly made eye contact.

He’s not imagining things.

Dean is _here_.

Castiel takes a step forward, then another, his feet moving without any conscious thought because there is no goddamn way that he could ever keep himself from Dean Winchester. Especially not when it seems that Dean Winchester would chase him to the ends of the earth.

Why is he here?

Dean meets him halfway, and he looks even more beautiful up close, his clothes and hair rumpled and his chest heaving as he catches his breath.

“Hey,” Dean says – and there’s no way that Cas is imagining this. He has to resist the urge to reach out and touch, just to make sure, and more than anything, he wants to know _why_ Dean is here. Why he’s chased Castiel all the way back to where it all began, when their relationship has always been nothing more than a friendship.

“Dean.” He doesn’t know what to say. There are a thousand thoughts and emotions running through his head, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel when he’s faced with the man he fell in love with, the man he’s trying to escape. He tries to distance himself from it all, but there’s no way he can return to being the cold dragon Novak, not when he’s bared himself completely to Dean.

There are a thousand things he could say right now, but instead, he asks dumbly, “Why… Why are you panting?”

Dean gives him a wry look and rakes his fingers through his hair, then lets his hand fall to his side. “Because I’ve been running.” There’s no teasing lilt to his tone – he’s completely serious.

Castiel tries desperately to close off, folding his arms across his chest and slanting his gaze away.

“Really? From Kansas?” he bites out, without looking at Dean.

His assistant isn’t going to take the bait. Instead, he says, “I need to talk to you,” and again, his words are completely serious. When Castiel tentatively raises his gaze back to Dean’s face, he sees no traces of teasing or joking or manipulation. There is nothing but raw honesty and sincerity in his expression.

He has no idea what this ‘talk’ is going to entail, but… he’s curious. And Dean must see that in his face, the way Castiel uncurls just the smallest bit and opens back up, because he seizes his opportunity and barrels on.

“A few days ago, you were nothing but my boss. I thought you were cold and emotionless and didn’t really care about anything but work.”

What is Dean trying to achieve with this? Castiel bristles defensively, shifting his weight onto his back foot to turn and leave, but Dean doesn’t stop talking.

“Fuck, Cas, I’ve never been more wrong about anyone or anything in my whole life. Sometime in the past four days, you stopped being my scary, irritable boss, and you became a friend. Someone I genuinely enjoyed spending time with. There is so much _more_ to you than I ever thought, and I’m sure there’s more still that I haven’t yet uncovered, and I’ll never get a chance to if you disappear back to Russia.”

He takes a deep breath, and Castiel is rooted to the spot now, all thoughts of leaving fled from his mind.

“I didn’t realise until last night just how I felt about you, and then when I woke up this morning and found you gone… it really drove it home. I still don’t know why you left, but… I’m pretty sure you feel the same way.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a self-deprecating half-smile, but Castiel can see in his eyes just how scared he is, and how much he’s trying to cover it with humour. “Unless my translation app was wrong, and then this is gonna be hugely embarrassing for me.”

Translation app? It takes Castiel a few moments to realize what Dean’s talking about, and he can feel a blush colouring his cheeks. Dean knows what he wrote on the note. Dean knows how he feels. But if Dean knows that Castiel loves him, then…

Then he’s come all this way to stop Castiel from making the worst decision of his life.

And that means…

“я тоже тебя люблю, Cas.” Dean’s eyes are bright, his grin slowly becoming more and more real, and it’s the brightest, most beautiful thing Castiel’s ever seen. For a few seconds, he’s frozen in place, unable to believe what Dean just said, that Dean _loves him_. “Man, I really hope the translation app didn’t fuck up, or that I didn’t mess up the pronunciation,” Dean jokes. “I meant to say I love—”

Castiel tears his resignation letter in half, then closes the distance between them in one stride and pulls Dean in by the front of his shirt, crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss. He feels Dean huff out a laugh against his lips, and then melt into the kiss, winding his arms around Castiel’s neck and pulling him in close.

They stay like that until they need to separate for air, holding each other close like drowning men clinging to a life raft. When they finally do break the kiss, Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and presses their foreheads together, unwilling to let go of even a part of Dean. “I’m sorry I left,” he whispers, and there’s a flash of pain in the depths of Dean’s green eyes.

“Why?” Dean asks quietly, and Castiel’s heart aches at the raw quality of his voice. “Why did you just disappear?”

God, he’s been such an idiot. “You… you said it was better than any one night stand you’ve had, and I thought…” He trails off, his gaze slanting away until he feels one of Dean’s hands cup his cheek.

“You though it was just a one night stand?” Dean’s eyes are soft, and Castiel loves the way that they crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “You idiot, Cas,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to Castiel’s lips before pulling away.

Castiel’s first instinct it to tighten his grip on Dean’s waist – he only just got Dean back, he doesn’t want to let him go again so soon – but he relinquishes his hold and watches, first with confusion and then with a dawning understanding, as Dean sinks to one knee.

“I’m sorry that I don’t have a ring,” Dean says, his voice wry and teasing, “I was a little busy racing across the country to stop this idiot from make a _huge_ mistake and throwing away everything he’s worked so hard for. Plus—” he holds up his left hand, where the engagement ring still sits, and waggles his fingers. “I’d have to find a really nice ring to match this one, not just something I picked up at a pawn shop.”  
  
“Did you have a point?” Cas asks, his lips twitching as he tries to hold back a grin, because he’s pretty sure that Dean Winchester is the most amazing man on the whole planet.

Dean’s answering smile is breathless and radiant, and Castiel knows that he will remember this moment for the rest of his life.

“Marry me, Cas. For real, not just as a green card scam.”

And how could he ever say no to that?

Castiel pulls Dean back up onto his feet and kisses him soundly – though it’s a little difficult with how hard they’re both smiling. He’d never expected that this would be how his day would end, not in a million years. But he’s so glad that Dean came after him.

“Um, excuse me?”

The voice comes from behind Castiel, and they break apart, rather the reluctantly. It seems somewhat familiar, and it takes him a few seconds to place it – he doesn’t realise just who it belongs to until he sees Dean staring at something over his shoulder, his expression one of a deer caught in the headlights.

Fuck.

When he turns around, the scene is exactly what he’d expected. Henriksen stands in the open doorway, Luke and Michael behind him, and all three are staring at the couple they just caught making out in the hallway.

Making out, and getting engaged, when they were already supposed to be engaged.

Beside him, Dean audibly gulps. Henriksen, though, just shakes his head and turns back to Michael and Luke. “Now our interview makes a little more sense,” he says wryly as he shakes their hands. “Thank you for your help. I may be back to talk to you again in the future, depending on the results of the in-person interview.”

He says his goodbyes to Michael and Luke, who still look as though they’re trying to figure out exactly what’s going on. Henriksen, though, just gives them a slightly exasperated look as he passes. “See you on Wednesday, gentlemen,” he says, then disappears into the elevator.

Castiel glances back at his bosses, just in time to see Luke raise an eyebrow. They might have to talk their way out of this one.

“So, uh,” he says, at the same time that Dean begins with, “Funny story…”

Michael just shakes his head and holds up a hand to cut them off, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t… I don’t know what the hell is going on with you two any more. I’d be curious to see what kind of story you could come up with, but honestly, if it’s good enough for the USCIS guy, it’s good enough for us."

“Now go home,” Luke adds. “We don’t want to see either of you until Thursday, and that’s only if you’re still legally allowed in the country.”

With that, they disappear back into their office, still looking a little bewildered by this turn of events as the door closes behind Luke. Castiel can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

It looks like fate is giving them a second chance.

Fate, and one Victor Henriksen.

They’re going to have a hell of a lot of studying to do tomorrow if they’re going to pass the interview, since they need to know everything about each other by eleven in the morning on Wednesday.

But Castiel knows, as he looks back at his fiancé (for real, this time) and they share a relieved smile, that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Dean in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> я люблю тебя навсегда = I love you forever  
> я тоже тебя люблю = I love you too
> 
> Don't forget that there's an epilogue coming soon, and in the meantime, leave a comment or kudos! I've put so many hours into this beast, and I'm so goddamn proud of it.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)!
> 
> EDIT: also, a small announcement. This year I am taking part in the FandomTrumpsHate auction. More info can be found [here](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com) \- bidding is not very expensive, and it all goes to a good cause. If you'd like me to write a fic for you, or if there's a creator in the offering list who you absolutely love and would love to commission, I recommend checking it out.


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is it, guys. This is the end. It's so weird to think about, because this was the first longfic that I ever wrote, and the second thing I posted on AO3. And now it's done. It's very satisfying to see how far I've come in my writing, though, and I just want to take a second to thank every single person who has read, commented, given kudos to or subscribed to this story, especially those of you who've been with me since the early days. Your support means the absolute world to me, and I hope you've loved reading this fic as much as I've loved writing it.
> 
> As always, a special thank you to [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope). Without her constant support and amazing beta work, this fic would not have become as good as it is today.
> 
> So, for the last time...  
> Enjoy.

In a small apartment in New York, two men lie curled up in a bed as they watch the sun set, their limbs entwined so closely and so intimately that it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Clothes and covers have long since been discarded – only a thin sheet remains wrapped around their bodies, pulled up in a mockery of modesty and the pretence of keeping warm even with each other’s radiant body heat.

Castiel smiles against Dean’s hair and presses a kiss to the short strands, rubbing his hand back and forth over his fiancé’s shoulders. Dean sighs and curls against Cas a little closer. He’s close to dozing off, Castiel can feel it, and while they’ve certainly made the most of their ‘free’ day today, they still need to keep studying.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he mumbles against the top of Dean’s head. “We have to go through everything one more time before tomorrow.”

Dean grumbles against Castiel’s chest, then turns his head and focuses a bleary green gaze on Castiel. “Cas, we’ve been doing this all goddamn day.”

“You know that’s not true,” he reprimands, his voice carrying the smile on his lips into the air. “We’ve spent much of the day doing other things, and while they’ve been more than pleasant, I would still like to go to sleep tonight feeling confident that I’ll still have a place in this country the same time tomorrow.”

Despite Dean’s grousing and the pout that adorns his face when he rolls over properly onto his stomach, he acquiesces. He’s just as scared of their application being denied as Castiel himself is, he knows, and he has never loved Dean more. Still, he sweetens the deal a little, reaching up to run his fingers through Dean’s hair when the man props himself up on his elbows. “If you get everything right, I’ll suck your cock,” he whispers, and is rewarded by the dilation of Dean’s pupils.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, there,” Dean whispers back, his lips curling up in a lazy grin. Sex is a very good motivator for his fiancé, Castiel is learning. Sex and food. He doesn’t have much time to be amused by this discovery, however – Dean is already launching into his list of facts and knowledge about Castiel, and he has to pay attention to make sure that he gets everything right.

Dean, despite how distracted he has seemed today, is a very quick study.

Ten minutes later, Cas is settling onto his stomach between Dean’s spread legs. He watches his fiancé as he brushes his lips over the sensitive skin of his thighs, smiling softly as Dean squirms and cants his hips up in invitation.

When he takes Dean’s cock into his mouth, it’s with fingers tangled into his hair and Dean’s moan carrying sweetly on the still evening air. Dean is bathed in golden light, beautiful and ethereal and Castiel’s, and no matter what happens tomorrow, he knows he will love this man forever.

Henriksen takes his sweet fucking time getting everything in order, and even though Dean knows that it’s designed to make him sweat… it’s getting to him a little. He pulls surreptitiously at the knot of his tie as the USCIS officer collects and shuffles his papers, checking and double-checking all the paperwork and letting Dean stew.

It’s not a tactic that’s going to work. This is too important for Dean to screw up. While he sits opposite Henriksen, he goes over all his facts about Castiel in his head, hoping that he won’t ask too many questions that require Russian answers.

Dean’s been trying to learn, but while Cas makes it seem easy (and sexy), Dean’s Russian syllables still sound like a fork getting stuck in the garbage disposal.

Finally, Henriksen looks up at Dean.

“Mr. Winchester. You are aware that one wrong answer to any of these questions, and I will be left with no choice but to deport Mr. Novak back to Russia, and you yourself could be facing some serious jail time for attempting to defraud a government agent. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Dean replies with a nod of his head – his voice comes out a little scratchy, and he clears his throat. The grin he gives Henriksen probably looks more confident than he’s really feeling – because this is Cas’s future on the line here, their future, and he desperately doesn’t want to fuck it up. Cas has already done his part of the interview, probably flawlessly if Henriksen still wants to talk to Dean, so it’s all on him now.

“Alright,” Henriksen declares, flipping open his dossier with a sharp snap. “Then let’s get to it.”

It’s an hour later when Dean finally leaves the office, still dizzied by the flood of questions directed at him. Castiel sees him as soon as he walks through the door, and rises to his feet. His fiancé may look calm to anyone else, but Dean sees his nervousness in the tightness around his eyes, the stiff set of his shoulders, the way his hands shake just a little by his sides.

Dean can’t hold back the grin any more, and Castiel’s face lights up in response.

They meet each other halfway, Cas’s hands coming up to cup his cheeks and pull him in for a desperate, elated kiss. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’s waist to keep him close, and when they finally break apart for air, they’re both breathless and grinning. He’s never been so relieved in his whole goddamn life.

“He said you can stay, Cas,” Dean whispers, pressing their foreheads together. He came so close to losing Cas so many times, but they finally did it. “You can stay.”

And then, with a chuckle, “Your questions were so much harder than his. He never even asked me what your favourite Russian food is! I learned the word пирожки for nothing!”

He must still be screwing up the pronunciation, because Cas smiles and laughs, brighter and happier than Dean has ever seen him, and pulls him in for another kiss.

“Cas, babe?”

Dean’s voice cuts through Castiel’s concentration, although only just. The manuscript he’s working on has managed to completely capture his attention, and when he blinks, he realizes that their apartment is no longer illuminated by late afternoon sunlight, but the yellow glow of electricity. How long has he been reading for? He flips back a few pages, then a few more. There are no signs of red pen anywhere – somehow, he’d managed to get completely caught up in the story, so much so that he’d forgotten to do his job.

Castiel rubs his eyes and sets the manuscript aside, then stretches his legs out in front of him along the couch. Dean watches him from the doorway, a gentle smile curling his lips and his arms folded loosely in front of his chest. “Is it good?”

Is it good? What a stupid question.

“I completely forgot I was supposed to be editing it,” he admits. “I was just… reading. It’s so much better than it was.” He tosses his red pen aside and shifts his legs to make space on the couch for Dean when he crosses the room. His fiancé’s shy, happy smile still makes his heart flip giddily in his chest.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Dean admits, leaning close and resting his head on Cas’s shoulder. “God knows I spent enough time working on it to fix it. I’m lucky I have such a clever, experienced fiancé to help me out.”

Admittedly, Castiel hadn’t done much. A lot of the improvement can be attributed to Dean’s innate writing talent; Cas had just given him a few gentle nudges in the right direction. The result is astounding, and he has no doubt that Dean will one day be a bestselling author. “Is that why you agreed to marry me?” he teases gently, lifting one arm to wrap it around Dean’s shoulders. “So that you’d have a foothold in the writing industry?”

Dean makes a scandalized sound. “Is that really all you think of me?” he asks, and then he chuckles and tilts his head so that he’s looking up at Castiel. The joking expression on his face fades, and he bites his bottom lip for a second. “Actually, speaking of the marriage…”

If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d say Dean seemed nervous, though he has no idea why. They’ve barely started planning their wedding, so it couldn’t be… Fear begins to wind oily black tendrils into Castiel’s mind, and Dean must see it, because he’s quick to sit up and press a kiss to Cas’s cheek. “Relax,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “I still want to marry you. In fact, I, uh… I picked up something today.”

Because of the way they’re sitting, it takes Dean a little manoeuvring and wriggling to be able to reach his back pocket.

Once he does… he pulls out a small black box.

It’s stupid – they’ve already gotten engaged twice – but Castiel’s heart still skips a beat as Dean flips the box open to reveal a silver ring nestled in the velvet.

“I kinda had to guess your size, so I hope it’s okay… and I double checked with Bobby to make sure I hadn’t fucked anything up, but if I did, we can always go back and—”

Castiel cuts off Dean’s nervous rambling with a kiss, and he feels Dean smile against his lips.

When they break apart, Dean lifts the small box in offering, and Castiel carefully plucks the silver ring from its bedding. Something glints in the light as he turns it, and he peers closer.

On the inside of the ring, a careful inscription reads, ‘я люблю тебя.’

_I love you._

Tears well up in Castiel’s eyes, and he pulls his fiancé in for another emotional kiss. Dean gently takes the ring from him and slips it onto his left ring finger, then twines their fingers together.

The ring fits perfectly.

Two men dance beneath the stars on a clear Kansas night, hand in hand, heart to heart. The gentle melodies of the band beside the dancefloor wrap around the young couple like a caress, and any one of the guests looking on can see from the brilliant smiles and soft gazes just how smitten the two are. They have eyes only for each other, blue meeting green and green meeting blue, as they press infinitely closer and dance across the wooden floor as one single entity.

“How does it feel to be Mr. Winchester?” Dean asks with a soft smile as Cas spins them, black shoes never once missing a beat on the polished dancefloor. It’s still crazy to think that they’re married, that Cas is his husband, until death do them part.

Crazy in the best possible way, in the feeling of holding one’s breath and leaping into the unknown together, hands clasped and hearts on their sleeves.

“I like it much better than the names that came before it,” Castiel tells him, his eyes sparkling and his hand warm against Dean’s waist. “Even more so because it means I’m married to the most wonderful man in the world.”

Dean’s heart has never felt so full as it feels now, gazing into Cas’s eyes and having his first dance with his husband in the company of their family and friends. Hell, they’d even gotten in touch with Gabriel, who’d flown in from California to see his little brother get married.

The open field and the tables and bar and dancefloor and the strings of lights illuminating everything are amazing, but honestly, Dean is just happy to be here with Cas, and with the people who mean the most to both of them. The suits he could definitely do without, and although he can’t deny that Cas looks absolutely smoking hot, he can’t wait to take every single stitch of that suit off his husband later tonight.

His gaze falls on his left hand, clasped in Cas’s and with a shining golden ring sitting on his ring finger. The small blue sapphire inlaid in the golden band sparkles in the lights that hang over the dancefloor, and his heart flutters against his ribs as he thinks of the matching green gem on Cas’s wedding ring.

Those aren’t his favourite aspects of the rings that they’d so carefully designed, though. The words ‘я люблю тебя навсегда’ are pressed forever into their skin, so carefully inscribed into the metal of their wedding bands.

Castiel’s eyes follow his gaze, and he smiles softly when he glances back at Dean. “I love you,” he whispers, “forever and always.”

The song comes to an end, and the watching crowd cheers and applauds as Castiel sweeps Dean into a deep dip and kisses him so soundly that Dean can barely tell which way is up until Cas puts him properly back on his feet. He laughs giddily, beaming from ear to ear, and wraps his arms around Cas’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you too, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> пирожки = Pirozhki (baked/fried bun with filling)  
> я люблю тебя = I love you  
> я люблю тебя навсегда = I love you forever
> 
> And that's all she wrote, folks! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed reading this, or come say hello/follow me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)!
> 
> If you're interested in reading more of my works, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/works). If you'd like to be notified of any more works of mine in the future, you can subscribe to me [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, guys. I love you all.


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